


recipe for disaster (what’s in your heart)

by Lire_Casander



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Conspiracy, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, M/M, Mentions of War, Panic Attacks, War Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 57,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lire_Casander/pseuds/Lire_Casander
Summary: Michael Guerin will do everything in his power to become King of Genovia, despite the stupid laws that force him to marry a woman in order to rule.ORThePrincess Diaries 2: Royal EngagementMalex AU some of you were waiting since last summer!
Relationships: Isobel Evans/Maria DeLuca, Kyle Valenti/Jenna Cameron, Max Evans/Liz Ortecho, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 90
Kudos: 148
Collections: Time After Time: A Roswell New Mexico Alternate Era AU Event, there will always be an us (in every world in every story)





	1. find a wild side somewhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brightloveee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightloveee/gifts).



> Written for the [Time After Time Event](https://alterarnm.tumblr.com/) over a Tumblr, **Day 5: Movie fusions**.
> 
> It's finally here! FINALLY HERE! It's only taken me *checks* eight months to finish it and be able to post it! Who's ready for some _Princess Diaries 2_ Malex AU?
> 
> I have been working on this fic for the longest time, but I haven't been the only one. My wonderful beta [fiona-glenanne-westen](https://fiona-glenanne-westen.tumblr.com/) has done a WONDERFUL job within these months, with little to no Internet connection from time to time, and with several tech problems that she's been amazing at resolving while I tried my best to encourage her. You are the true hero in this story, dear!
> 
> All chapters' titles come from a song from the OTS. The title comes from a few quotes within the movie.
> 
> It's completely written, but I will be posting the chapters every two days or so, to make reading easier, since this one is _long_. And I mean it. I won't be promoting the other chapters on tumblr if you follow me there, I'm sorry. This story will be solely posted on Ao3, with no crossposting whatsoever in any other social media.
> 
> Grace, I'm pretty sure you're surprised. But I could never post this and not gift it to you. You've been an amazing friend and one of my biggest fans while writing this story (and many others!). You're one of the best people I have ever been lucky enough to meet, and I'm honored to count you as my friend. We're together in other adventures, and so far my life has only become better because you're in it. I love you, honey.
> 
> Just so you all know, this missy here has her own Princess Diaries AU going on in this event, and if you haven't gone check it, you're missing out on something incredible! Here's the link --> [Anastasia’s Got Nothing on Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643880/chapters/56748613)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: _Fools_ by Rachel Stevens

If anyone would have told Michael Guerin, when he was fifteen, that he'd be heir of an ancient kingdom in the middle of Europe, he would have scoffed and thrown a punch...or several. At twenty-eight, he's already given up on trying to understand where his life derailed so much that he's actually been learning how to rule a country for the past ten years. He still hasn't grown out of his tendency to throw punches whenever he's got one too many beers. 

Right now, though, he’s perched on the bar of some hidden pub in the lowest part of town, a red-haired girl attached to his hip and a whiskey on the rocks in his right hand, trying to slur his way into a fight with one of the patrons who’s massive enough to make anyone scared any normal day. But today is not a normal day for Michael, and so he’s retaliating in the reckless hope that he’ll get knocked out long enough for the pain inside of him to dull. He pushes himself from the counter, already swaying with alcohol and the need to hit a brick wall, but he doesn’t move further. The patron pins him to the bar the moment Michael turns around, and lifts a menacing fist in front of Michael’s face.

“What are you going to do?” he slurs, helpless against the hard surface. He knows a smirk would be the last straw for the other man, so he tries for one, but he’s too buzzed and it comes out more like a grimace.

“Michael!” he hears right behind the offender, Max making his way through the crowd, all broad shoulders and determination. “Get off him!” he commands, grabbing the patron by his shirt and jerking him away from Michael. The red-haired girl giggles as a light goes off somewhere at Michael’s left – it comes from the outside, and even in his sorry state Michael recognizes the lingering of a flash. _Paparazzi_. “Everyone, get out of my way!” Max continues ordering around as he shelters Michael from the onlookers with his own body. Michael shakes his head; he wants to tell Max that he’s good by himself, that he can, for once, finish a fight he’s started, but Max isn’t having any of that, already dragging him off the counter and across the room, towards the swinging doors. 

Michael would have loved to get some punches in, but the fun has been ripped away from him, just like Max always does. He's found himself in similar situations several times since arriving in Genovia, and every single time he's been saved by his brother in arms turned security chief. 

"I've grown a million gray hairs since we've come back to Genovia," Max grunts as he hauls Michael's frame out of the only bar in town that's still shady enough not to have banned the Prince from even entering. "C'mon, Michael, let's get you to bed." 

"I'm havin' fun," Michael slurs, slumped against Max like a broken puppet. "Spoilsport." 

"You'll be thanking me in the morning," Max tells him softly as he pushes Michael into the official car waiting for them. Michael lowers his head and allows Max to manhandle him. For a moment they both think they've avoided the photographers – the paparazzi are always drawn to Michael for fresh news like a moth to the light – until the first flash shoots from across the street, blinding them both mid-movement, Max's hand on Michael's shoulder blade, the Prince's head bent down in an awkward angle as he wriggles his body to get inside the car. "Dammit," Max mutters under his breath, hushing Michael when he starts to slur his greetings to the journalists. "Get in the car. Now." 

"You're no fun, Massimo," Michael says, but he obliges when a second flash hits him square in his eyes. He groans as he lands on the back seat, arm colliding against the door as Max pushes him further in so he can hop inside and commands the driver to get them out of there as soon as possible. 

They have to ride next to the group gathered in front of the bar; Max forces Michael to look down at his knees, eyes closed and world swirling as the cameras keep shooting pictures that he knows will be all over the national press in the morning. Not for the first time, he wishes the laws in Genovia allowed cars to have tinted windows, but after an incident with Prince Ernst back in the eighties that no one ever talks about anymore every car has to sport clean, transparent windows. Michael feels dizzy and overwhelmed, both by the alcohol running through his veins and by the fear of the outcome of this tantrum in the morning. 

He's been given a few warnings, and Regent Valenti has already expressed clearly that she would _not_ condone his antics anymore. He's been lectured several times about the importance of his position, about how he's now the image of a country he will begin ruling when he's deemed ready by the board, and he knows that another misstep and they'll more likely hand the throne over to the Valenti family without even blinking. 

"This is a mess," he groans again, once they've hit the road back to the palace, no paparazzi in sight. "I have a feeling I've really fucked up this time." 

"Maybe it isn't as bad as it seems," Max tries to comfort him as they approach the building, standing tall and regal in the moonlight. He offers Michael a bottle of water and what looks like an aspirin. "Now let's get inside. I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning when you've had some sleep." 

Michael shakes his head but doesn’t retaliate. He allows Max to help him out of the car once the driver kills the engine inside the garage, and he stumbles his way through the hallways up to his room, followed closely by Max. Michael doesn’t need to check the expensive wristwatch Regent Valenti gave him when he turned twenty-one to know that it's far too late for Isobel to be standing in front of his bedroom door, left foot tapping a staccato with her heel in the marble floor. 

"Not now, Iz," he tries to push past her as he speaks, only to be halted by her hand firmly planted on his chest. "I'm tired, I want to get inside." 

"I know these days are hard on you," she says softly. "But I don't think it's really necessary to flaunt your pain for everyone to see, Michael." 

"This is not the time nor the place, Isobel," Max scolds her from behind the spot where Michael is swaying, buzzing with alcohol and exhaustion. "We can talk about it in the morning." 

"It'll be too late then, and you know it, Max," she sighs. "I've seen your message. There were at least a dozen photographers there! And that girl, Michael, do you know who she was?" 

"Inside," Max commands, pushing Michael gently as he reached out around him to tug at the handle. The door opens, Michael stumbles into his own room, followed by his twin friends. 

He doesn’t need to turn around to feel the glare Isobel is sending his way, matched with a glance of pity in Max’s eyes. Blonde and brunette, the twins are scary on their own; Michael hadn't been on the receiving end of their wrath for too long, not since he'd come back to Roswell after half a life spent surviving foster care – he'd needed a support system, and rejoining the kids he'd met during his first few months in the group home after the accident had felt like the only right thing in a long time. Isobel has only subjected him to her ire whenever he'd drowned his fears in alcohol hidden in nail polish remover bottles; Max has only shaken his head and helped him out of the fights he gets himself into when he's drunk enough to speak with his fists. Their dynamics changed when Michael found out about Genovia and Mara and the throne, but the twins' faith in him never wavered as they worked hard to match the needs a king would have – Max had learned about security and guns and bodyguard duties; Isobel had gone to college to study protocol and event planning and institutional communication. Michael himself had been subjected to four years of regal duties and lessons on ruling at the very same university Isobel had been admitted to, while getting himself a degree in mechanical engineering on the side. Life had been good. 

"Michael," Isobel begins softly. "Look at me." 

"What for?" he snaps. He still refuses to turn around. "I already know what a failure and a deception I am to everyone." 

"Michael," Max warns, but there's nothing threatening in his voice. Michael sighs and turns on his heels, still looking at his shoes instead of at them. 

"You’re not a failure, and we're definitely _not_ mad at you," Isobel starts. Michael can hear the shuffle of her clothes as she takes a step forward, a hand landing on his arm, squeezing enough to let him know he's not alone. "I know it's a difficult time for you, but I'm afraid that you're going to lose everything we've worked so much for this past decade." 

"Maybe it'd be better if I just gave up," Michael whispers. His left hand twitches, seizing up – a reminder of past mistakes. He manages to quelch it down. "I’m not suited to be king." 

"Why?" Max asks, getting to them in one long stride. "Because sometimes you mess up? We all do. We just need to get better at helping you not to." 

“I can’t do anything right, can’t you see?” Michael knows it’s the alcohol speaking, but he can’t help the sour feeling searing through his throat up to his mouth. “I’m always getting in trouble, and when the morning comes, _this_ will be everywhere on display,” he gestures at himself, shirt askew, holes around the collar, and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. He's sobered up enough to realize that his adventures in shady lands tonight are going to be biting him tomorrow. "Michelle is so _not_ going to be happy about this." 

"Maybe we can convince her that this–" 

"No, Max," Isobel cuts him. "They've already given Michael too many chances. Regent Valenti warned him, she even told _me_. The Board isn't happy, and they're not going to care if tonight marks twenty years since the accident. They're going to snap." 

"Jeez, thanks for the support," Max shakes his head. "It's going to be okay, Michael. You'll see. They'll understand." 

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

"This is outrageous, Michael," Regent Valenti cries out, throwing the newspaper over the table. On the front page, a close up of Michael raging against the patron from the night before, the girl looking scared by his side. According to the sources, the title screamed _New scandal at the palace: heir spends night with low lives and prostitutes_. "How am I supposed to explain this, Michael?"

He massages his temple with his fingertips, trying to chase away the impending headache that always comes with his worst hangovers. It's way too early to be having this conversation – or any for that matter – but he isn't about to contradict Regent Valenti at eight thirty on a Thursday morning.

"Yesterday was my mom's–" he begins, but Michelle isn't having any of it. 

"As much as I am sorry for your loss, the Board won't be as sympathetic," she sighs. "I’ve been summoned to an urgent meeting, and I have been... _encouraged_ to bring you along." 

"The Board wants to see me?" Michael feels his stomach churn. Usually, the Board doesn't want to see him, only calling for his presence when he's fucked up enough that they need to stage an intervention. "That bad, huh?" 

"Really, you shouldn't have gone out last night at all. But the worst decision you made last night wasn’t going out; it was to flirt with that woman. She wasn't who you thought she was; she sold you to the press for a four-figure check. That’s all you were to her, Michael: a paycheck she can drink or shoot up. She's an addict, did you know? And addict, and a whore," she dismisses his surprised yelp with a wave of his hand." You've gone one step too far this time. Look at the picture, Michael! Look at this _story_! Does any of that sound like a prince to you? I'll have a talk with Max, he should have kept you inside the palace." 

"Don't even go there," Michael warns her. "I snuck out, this has nothing to do with Max. I'll go meet the Board," Michael concedes, defeated. "Maybe they've finally realized how unprepared I am and they've decided to kick me out." 

"Listen to me, young man," Michelle points at him with her index finger. "I haven't fought for ten years so you could become king to throw it all out the window on the twentieth anniversary of the accident that stole Mara and yourself from us. You wouldn't have spent a decade learning how to be king if you didn't care." She frowns. "We'll face them together. I can try to appease them using the dead mother card, if you want me to. Just remain silent," she tells him. "Whenever you open that big mouth of yours, one of the Board members pops a vein." She glances over him and purses her lips. "And please go change into something that doesn't make you look like a hybrid between a drifter and a mechanic after a bad oil day." 

Michael has to bite back a laugh at the sight of Regent Michelle Valenti wrinkling her nose in disgust at the clothes he's slept in. "I'll be charming for the meeting. When's the big event?"

"It's starting in ten minutes, and they've already postponed it an hour. It is _that_ urgent." Michelle shakes her head as she walks towards the door, leaving the newspaper on the coffee table where it landed before. Michael glares at it for a moment, wishing for it to vanish. When the offending piece of paper doesn't spontaneously combust, he sighs deeply and turns to raid his wardrobe. 

Ten minutes and two cups of coffee later, Michael hovers outside the meeting room on the west side of the palace. Max and Isobel are already with him, because they don't trust Michael with his security nor his fashion sense, so now he's wearing a button-down flannel shirt and clean jeans while he endures a speech from Max about how to behave inside a meeting the twins are only allowed to witness from the secret hallways in the walls. 

"It'll be okay," Isobel reassures, threading her hands through Michael's curls to tame them. "Just get in there and tell them that you'll be better from now on. Throw in that charm of yours and you'll have them wrapped around your pinkie in no time." 

"As if," Max scolds them both. "It's not you whose head Regent Valenti chewed off." 

"I told her it was my fault," Michael reminds him, feeling like a broken record. "I told her not to go for you!" 

"It's my fault as well, you know. I should be able to handle the king if I'm going to be in charge of his safety." 

"I have to go in now," Michael says, grabbing Max's shoulder and squeezing it in silent acknowledgement of Max's struggle. "Wish me luck." 

He doesn't wait for them to do so before sauntering into the anteroom, where Regent Valenti is already standing, expecting him to show up. He greets her with a nod and they walk up towards the door leading to the actual room. Halfway through their stroll, she stops briefly to whisper, "Are the twins watching from the niche?" At Michael’s nod, she visibly relaxes. “Good,” she mutters. “I don’t think any of us will be able to brief them after this.” Michael wants to ask her if she knows something he doesn’t about the meeting, but his head is pounding and she’s resumed walking, approaching fast to the guards waiting for them by the golden doors. After they're properly announced, Regent Valenti inhales deeply and steps forward, Michael hot on her heels. 

The meeting room is full to the brim, Michael notices when the doors close behind him. There's a regal high-backed chair where Regent Valenti sits graciously, leaving him to stand in front of the Board just like the other few times he's been summoned. He faces the elders who are now in charge of his future – he can see the newspaper on top of Marquis Chandler's desk. The rest of the Board are glaring at him as he positions himself and smoothes an invisible crease at the bottom of his shirt. Michael grows more and more nervous as the room fills with public, while the members of the Board remain seated and still. There are a few faces he doesn't recognize, and the ones he does are not showing any sympathy. If he were allowed to bet, which he isn't because of Prince Ernst's antics in the eighties, he would say that he's busted. Not even his most eager fan, Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud, dares to look him in the eye. Michael purses his lips and straightens up when the bell rings ceremoniously, stating the beginning of the board meeting. 

After the official reports are shown and the less pressing matters are dealt with, Marquis Chandler stands up on his cane and clears his throat. Michael perks up, one hand shooting to grasp his own shirt for balance. _Here we go_ , he thinks. This could be his downfall or his silver lining, and although he's always thought he wouldn't really care if he had to go back to Roswell to live in his truck, Michael finds himself wishing for another chance to redeem himself and keep this special thing he's had ever since Regent Valenti found him wandering through the desert in New Mexico and told him that he was the only heir to a small but cozy kingdom in between Andorra and Spain. Michael swallows hard, bracing himself for the blow he knows is coming. 

"I'm sure we all have read the news," Marquis Chandler starts. "We are not here to discuss Prince Michael's behavior, since we all know it's despicable and should be corrected."

"He's got his fair share of warnings before last night," calls a voice by the end of the room, Marquis Chandler hushes them with a raised finger. 

“We’ve called for this emergency board meeting because it’s been brought to our attention that there might be, in fact, another candidate to inherit the throne,” Marquis Chandler speaks solemnly, standing as tall as his old age allows him to, while Michael chokes on his own saliva. There’s a gasp from inside the walls, near the air ducts that connect every room in the palace; Michael knows that it belongs to Isobel, and can almost picture her, hand up covering her mouth in shock. Behind him, Regent Valenti coughs as the room erupts in whispers that grow louder and louder. “Keep silent, or I’ll have to continue this meeting behind closed doors.” The attendants fall slowly into an uncomfortable silence while Michael can feel dread pooling in his gut. He doesn’t dare to turn around for fear he might see his own panic reflected in Regent Valenti’s eyes.

As true as it is that Michael didn’t always want to rule a kingdom – especially one nobody had ever heard of before – after a decade of learning protocol and living in the countryside during the summers and _breathing_ Genovia, he feels he belongs here. And that’s a feeling he hasn’t had anywhere else, not at foster homes, not during his stay at the church group home and not when he was living in his truck. In Genovia he’s found a sense of _home_ he only felt once before, bathed in the moonlight of a summer night.

“May I introduce to you Jesse Manes, Widower Lord d’Indile des Bois?” Marquis Chandler keeps going, unaware of Michael’s waning face. “Milord,” he continues as a man in his late forties, dressed in a military uniform, stands up with no expression shown in his features. “Please, be welcome to address this board with your query.”

“Milords, Regent Valenti, Prince Michael,” the man begins, arms crossed behind his back as he stands tall against the light filtering into the room. “I am here to make a claim on the throne in the name of my youngest son, Lord Alexander Manes. My late wife, Lady Misae d’Indile des Bois, was related to the Genovian Royal Family throughout her great-grandfather, who was Prince Ernst’s grandfather’s cousin.” Michael’s already lost in the genealogy Lord Jesse Manes is digging up, but it sounds legit enough for him. A quick glance around the room reassures him that the fact that the board members are listening attentively can only mean there’s a truth in those words. “Therefore, I have come to this board with the firm intention of helping my son pursue his birthright to the Genovian throne.”

“Excuse me now, who?” Michael asks completely flabbergasted. “In ten years I haven’t heard of any other suitor, and Genovia isn’t _that_ big.” He can feel the scowl Regent Valenti is throwing his way, but he couldn’t care less.

“That’s because _you_ have been too focused on learning about Genovia’s customs, instead of having lived through them since childhood, just like the perfect heir to the throne should have,” Jesse Manes snarls. Michael doesn’t like the feeling of intimidation that creeps up his spine under that inquisitive gaze. “My son, Lord Alexander, was born and raised in Genovia. He attended Primary School here, before I was stationed back in the United States and my late wife accepted my request for her to move overseas with our son.”

“And he hasn’t been around ever since, huh?” Michael fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Seems to me, he’s no better than me.”

“In fact, he’s the most suitable heir,” Jesse Manes argues. “He’s got military training, and he’s well versed in Genovia’s history and culture. Lord Alexander hasn’t lost his connection to his homeland, through the stories and tales my late wife would tell him throughout the years.”

“We already have a suitable heir,” Regent Valenti speaks up, voice not quavering a bit. Michael wants to cheer out loud, but he’s spent enough time around the Royal Court to know when’s not a good time to unleash his American heritage. “Prince Michael, present, has spent the past decade earning his right as King.”

“That’s the catch, though,” Jesse Manes retaliates, unstoppable in his quest to tear down Michael’s hopes and dreams. “My son, Lord Alexander, doesn’t _need_ to earn his right. It’s his birthright to become King, as I have already stated. And, if I’m not mistaken, the Pearful Law is still in force, rendering Prince Michael effectively unsuitable to access the throne.”

Michael blinks. He’s never heard of the law this man’s citing, and he’s spent half his time in Genovia studying their laws and regulations. From the sharp intake of breath he can hear at his back, he knows Regent Valenti knew about it. He can’t help turning around this time, eyeing her with a sharp glare that conveys all the fear and the annoyance he’s already feeling. “Why does the Pearful Law rules me out of ruling?” he questions before he can stop himself. He knows he’ll be scolded for that behavior later, but this whole situation is completely out of hand and surreal. Maybe if he pinches himself he won’t feel anything and that way he’ll know this is all a bad dream.

“The Pearful Law states that, should a foreigner desire to pursue the throne, he or she must be married into Genovian nobility before turning twenty-five,” Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud clarifies from his spot. Everyone turns their heads towards him, Michael first in line, trying to understand where that leaves him – he’s turning twenty-eight in a month’s time. “Given that there weren’t any other suitors, the Board decided to overlook the law. Now, however–”

“Now there is another, more suitable, suitor,” Jesse Manes interrupts, earning himself a glare from Marquis Chandler and half the Board members. Michael counts that as a win in his favor, since no one ever dares to interrupt the speech of a Board member. Not if they want to remain on their good side. 

“This Board would appreciate it if you respected your turn to speak,” Marquis Chandler warns him once. “Viscount, what were you suggesting?”

“Since it was a Board decision, we consciously deterred Prince Michael from fulfilling his duty as a foreigner heir to the throne for three years. I propose, as a motion, that we give Prince Michael a whole year to find a wife who could help him rule the country.”

“A full year?” The voices rise again, making Michael antsy. He doesn’t want to get married, and because he believes in true love, Michael knows he’d never be able to find someone suitable for this, even if he had a full year. He found his own true love so many years ago, even if it went down the drain as soon as it started.

“You can _not_ be serious about that span of time,” Jesse Manes blurts. He’s lost part of his cool stance, and is now perched against the desk he’s been standing behind. “A year is too much time, given the urgency this country has for a strong leader.”

“Are you implying Regent Valenti isn’t a strong leader?” Michael can’t help but ask, hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

“Prince Michael, please remain calm,” Marquis Chandler warns him without even sparing a glance his way. “Lord Manes, remember your manners when speaking to this Board. I agree that a year is too long, given that the schedule was set for Prince Michael to be crowned on his birthday, a month and a day from today.” The dread that has been gathering in Michael’s gut spikes, swirling into colorful ribbons that fly loose in his stomach, tying knots in their wake. “Therefore, I sentence that the stretch of time for Prince Michael to find a wife and marry is a month and a day, starting today. If you may desire to keep pursuing the throne, Prince Michael, I suggest you start your search right away.” He sits down, mouth in a tight line, and dismisses the board with a wave of his hand. The guards open the doors in a silent suggestion for the public to leave the room. Michael knows that, when Marquis Chandler speaks as firmly as he’s done today, there’s no place for arguments against his decision.

And Marquis Chandler’s decisions are law in Genovia.

Michael waits until Regent Valenti rises from her seat and descends gracefully until she’s once again at Michael’s level. She grabs the arm he’s gently offering and together they walk out of the meeting room, without sparing another glance to the Board members or to Lord Jesse Manes. Michael just wants to flee; when they make it outside the anteroom, Regent Valenti releases his arm and he stumbles forward, shivering in a fear he hasn’t been aware he could feel. Max and Isobel are already waiting for them by the other side of the hall, she propped against the wall while he paces the space so intently as if he wants to burn a hole in the carpet that richly ornates the hallways to the Royal Chambers.

“This is unbelievable!” Michael exclaims, hands up in the air. “How can they expect me to fall in love in a what, thirty-two days?”

“They don’t expect you to fall in love, Michael,” Isobel explains calmly, stepping forward. She shakes her head as she approaches him, Regent Valenti taking a step backwards to allow them some false sense of privacy. Michael knows what’s coming, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. “They expect you to agree to an arranged marriage or to refuse to be King.”

“Who in their right mind would accept an arranged marriage?” Michael screeches. Max stops his movements to glance over at them as if he’s seeing them for the first time. “What are you doing, anyway, Max?” Michael questions him. “What do you think?”

“I think that everyone in your family tree agreed to an arranged marriage,” Max says intently before resuming his pacing. “I read about your genealogy while I was studying in the Academy. Your mother was the first to marry out of love, but it didn’t turn out that well, now did it?” 

Michael knows Max is right – after studying his own family history, he’d learned that his mother had married his father, an American military man who swept her off her feet and took her to live in the States, completely and utterly in love with him, but he’d drowned in a terrible accident while enjoying a nice holiday at Pearch Lake in Genovia, when Mara had been three months along her pregnancy. His mother, out of blind love and sheer pain, had come back to Roswell, where he’d been stationed, for the funeral, and in the end Mara had decided to stay in America, away from Genovia and the memories that would haunt her forever. Almost eight years later, a car wreck had taken her away from Michael, and Michael had been pushed into a system that had failed him repeatedly until Regent Valenti had found him.

“I don’t want an arranged marriage,” he repeats, because he’s nothing but stubborn. “I want to fall in love and to grow old together and to share a life full of passion!”

“You can have all that still,” Regent Valenti speaks for the first time since exiting the meeting room. “No one says that you can’t fall in love with your wife, you just have to switch that order and be a little more flexible in your desires.”

“Michael’s already in love,” Isobel sighs, wiping a hand over her face. “Don’t you think I’ve forgotten your drunk tirades about that wonderful lover who stole you for two complete weeks, that summer five years ago, when you were trying to finish your MBA _and_ your mechanical engineer degree.”

“That’s long gone,” Michael mutters. although he stills dreams of those hands on his skin, marking him with heat and kisses. “And it seems I don’t have any options.”

“You still have options,” Regent Valenti refutes, starting to walk towards the hallway across the last door. She doesn’t wait for them to follow, and she doesn’t say another word until they’re all walking through the corridor towards the most private part of the palace. “You can still choose not to become King, Michael,” she suggests. “No one would ever hold that against you.”

“But it’s unfair,” he complains. They come to a halt when he stops to punch lightly a wall, not even leaving a dent. “I’ve been working so hard for this, and I want it. I didn’t think I would but now–now I want to be King and to–to change the world.”

“Now you’re quoting me, Guerin?” comes a voice from ahead the hallway, muffled by what can only be a hand over a mouth to keep a laugh from coming out.

“Cam!” Isobel and Max screech, while Michael just stares at her for a second, dumbfounded and speechless. “You’re finally here!”

“And I’ve had to get myself here because none of _you_ would come and pick me up at the airport. Do you know what a hassle is to convince any taxi driver that I really have clearance to get inside the Royal Palace?” the blonde replied sassily, strolling up to them and hugging the twins. She stopped in front of Michael with a fond smile playing in her lips. “Nothing to say, Guerin?”

“I didn’t know you were coming so soon,” he mutters. “I was expecting you next week!”

“Surprise?” she laughs heartily, embracing him. He reciprocates immediately, arms surrounding his best friend from Roswell. “What’s going on around here? You haven’t kept me updated, Guerin,” she complains when they let go of each other. She eyes him for a second as he attempts to order his thoughts so he doesn’t sound completely insane. “Well?”

“I’m getting married,” he blurts out. He hasn’t been aware of having made up his mind about it, because he wants to be King, he wants to rule – he wants to be able to speak up and change the world in a way he wouldn’t have dreamt of when he was a child. Cam bursts into laughter, her braid swaying on her back as the laughs course through her body, as the twins gasp in disbelief. Michael can even _feel_ Regent Valenti’s gaze boring a hole in his back.

“To whom?” Cam asks, winking at him and looking at the twins, who look back seriously. That alone makes her sober up, and the presence of Regent Valenti coming out of the shadows cast by the corridor walls force her laughs down her throat.

“I don’t know,” he confesses.

“I may have an idea,” Regent Valenti says softly, walking past them. “Are you coming?” she calls for them over her shoulder.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

The theatre was dark when the whole group entered, followed by three maids carrying trays with pear popcorn and different kinds of beverages. Michael’s warned Cam about the pear flavored _everything_ in Genovia so she wouldn’t be too bewildered by it, but he’s waiting eagerly for the first time she tastes the popcorn and what her reaction will be. He’s not disappointed when the two of them flop down a couch, Isobel at his right and Max at Cam’s left, and Cam pops a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

“What the actual fuck is this?” she blurts, almost spitting the food. “It’s–”

“Told you it was pear flavored,” Michael giggles. He grabs his own bucket and begins munching on it. “It’s an acquired taste, you’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t think I can stomach it,” Cam grunts displeased. “Just gimme a beer and some chips, then.”

“Chips also taste like pears,” Isobel tells her. “I find them gross too, you know,” she continues conspiratorially. “So I have my own stash of chip flavored chips.”

“I would _love_ you if you shared,” Cam promises, grabbing a beer from the tray and inspecting it just in case it also has a pear flavored taste. She’s rewarded with a small bag of Lay’s handed to her by Isobel.

“I don’t want to know where you’ve got those from,” Regent Valenti says as she strides over the projector, without greeting them in any other manner. “Nor how much it’s cost the Royal Accounts.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t,” Isobel replies around a mouthful of chips, all her pride and ice external appearance forgotten for a second. “That’s why I do it, anyway.”

“What are we doing here?” Michael asks, looking around the couch to Regent Valenti who’s standing near the projector with a folder in her hands. It’s taken him a lot of thinking and self-convincing to get to the point where he can accept that he’s going to have to make some huge sacrifices – like giving up on falling in love cosmically – in order to rule Genovia, but he just wants to do right by his mother, who would have wanted him to do the right thing. “I didn’t think you’d be up for movie time when we have more pressing issues like, I don’t know, _getting me married_.”

“And that’s what we’re going to do,” Regent Valenti answers with a soft smile, producing a USB device and inserting it into the ports in the projector. “I’ve loaded the catalogue of noble bachelorettes who are available right now, so we can peruse through them and choose the most suitable one.”

“Wait, like the slave markets from the nineteenth century?” Cam whips her head around so fast Michael thinks she’s going to snap her neck. “What is this, a Royal meat market?”

“I wish it could be done any other way,” Regent Valenti acquiesces. “But we cannot throw a party and invite everyone who might be interested. We could have, if we didn’t have the competition. Right now, the catalogue is our only chance. Don’t worry,” she reassures them all, now that Isobel and Max have turned around on the couch to look at her. “We’ll find someone for Michael, you’ll see.”

The knock on the door startles the four of them on the couch; Michael feels Cam wincing by his side, surprise coloring her features. He knows she's one hair's breadth from slipping into bodyguard mode, so he very slowly and deliberately puts a hand on her knee. "Calm down, Cam," he whispers. "There's no need to get all worked up. We're safe here." 

"I'll never be calmed when you're involved, Guerin," she whispers back. "Don't you remember Long Island?" 

"I knew you would never let me live that down, won't you?" he mutters, squeezing her knee. "Who's that?" he asks louder, aware that they're only getting interrupted because Regent Valenti wants them to be. 

"I forgot to mention," she says, wetting her lower lip. "I asked Kyle to come and help us." 

"You asked your _son_ for help?" Isobel shakes her head. "Don't you trust us to give Michael the best advice about women?" 

"Can someone please open the door?" comes Kyle's muffled complaint. "It's fucking hot as hell out here!" 

Without any further argument, Regent Valenti orders the maids with a wave of her hand to open the door. Michael shifts uncomfortably in his spot on the couch when Kyle Valenti enters the room, sauntering in as if he owned the place. Michael has to remind himself that Kyle has grown up inside these walls while his father first and then his mother ruled the kingdom, so Kyle has a right to act as if the palace is his home – because it's always been.

Kyle greets his mother and stops in front of the couch, one eyebrow quirked up in surprise at Cam. Michael doesn't hurry with the introduction – he can tell when a situation is going to become interesting, and he'd bet this is going to be hilarious. 

"I believe we haven't been properly introduced," Kyle smiles. "I'm Kyle Valenti, inhouse doctor for the Royal Family." 

"Hello, Isobel," Isobel mocks him, squinting her eyes. "How are you, Isobel? So great to see you all relaxing a bit, Isobel." 

Max scoffs, followed by Michael who full-out laughs. Kyle does a great job ignoring them while his mother simply remains in the shadows, waiting for the exchange to finish so they can get to work. 

"My name's Jenna Cameron. My friends call me Cam. You can call me Cameron," her smile is nothing but sweet although her words are ice laced with iron. 

"I think I'll take a seat on the floor," Kyle mutters as he retreats. He flops down by Isobel's side of the couch, head barely over the arm. "Care to share some of the Lays, Isobel?" 

She throws him one of the small bags, and they all wait for him to open the plastic before resuming their activity. "Let's get started," Regent Valenti says, pushing the _play_ button on the projector. The images begin rolling, one into the next, of women none of them have ever heard of; they dismiss all of them – too old, too young, or direct heirs to their own throne, which makes them instantly unsuitable for the task at hand. Michael marvels at the sheer amount of European nobility that’s related one way or another to Genovia’s Royal Family.

“Royalty’s all family,” Kyle explains when Cam voices the thought Michael’s been toying with in his mind. “You’d be surprised at the familial relationships between all those Royals out there.”

“Such as?” Cam looks at him from over her bag of chips, her beer already half empty after a full hour of watching picture after picture, discarding them for one reason or another.

“For example,” Kyle says, a teasing tone in his voice. Michael wants to smack him on the back of his head, but he knows that would earn him a lecture from Regent Valenti – not just because Kyle’s her son, but because that’s not the behavior of a King to be. “For example, Spanish Royals are cousins to British Royals, and the Queen of Denmark is actually cousin three times removed of half the European Royalty.”

“That means that, at some point, their ancestors got married and had children while being what, cousins or something similar?” Cam frowns, mirroring Michael’s own furrowed brows, and at Kyle’s nod, she snorts. “That’s fucked up, dude.”

“But it helps our case,” Max says as the image jumps to a new one. “They’re all somewhat related to Genovia, and that’s what we need right now.” He falls silent as his eyes fall to the picture of a brunette girl, dark eyes and olive skin. 

“What’s Liz doing in this list?” he asks as Michael perks up. He wouldn’t have expected Elizabeth Ortecho to show up, given that she’s not linked to Genovia in any form and she doesn’t even hold a title. Michael looks over at Max, who’s glancing up at the picture almost reverently. Something in the way that Max is looking at her makes Michael want to laugh at him every time they meet up with Liz. 

“Elizabeth Ortecho,” Regent Valenti speaks up, as though reading the name from a list on the folder. “I had forgotten she was up here.”

“That doesn’t answer my question”, Max insists. Michael shares a knowing look with Isobel – both of them are planning on giving Max a hard time about his obvious crush on the Mexican girl. 

“Because she’s best friends with Maria DeLuca,” Regent Valenti explains with awe in her voice, as though she’s just realized a fact that’s vital. She flips the presentation so the image morphs into one of a woman in her late twenties, dark skin and even darker hair, eyes deep and vivid, and a smile that catches Michael’s breath _every damn time_. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of her sooner.”

Michael shakes his head. He met Maria about four years before, during one of the parties Regent Valenti had thrown in his honor, when he decided to take upon himself the ruling of a kingdom he’d never heard of during his teenage years. They’d got along quite nicely, but that had been all – Michael hadn’t been interested in pursuing anything further than a friendship with a girl who could read him like an open book. Isobel had chastised him for not thinking about the future of the kingdom, but Michael hadn’t been able to force himself to like her more than she liked his best female friends. “She’s cute,” he concedes with a small smile playing on his lips. “But I don’t think we’ll hit it off, if we didn’t back in the day.”

“She’s the heir of a whole Italian empire, and her great-grandfather was cousin twice removed of Prince Ernst’s great-grandfather,” Regent Valenti muses, completely ignoring Michael’s words as she peruses the file inside the folder. “Her father died when she was eight and she inherited the titles he’d stored, including those of Viscountess of Como, Lady of Sinistra Maior and Duchess of Torino. She’s the perfect match, since we need someone titled, someone who can help you run a country without ego getting in the way. Someone attractive, smart, but not arrogant. Someone with compassion. She’s shown all those personality traces before.”

“Well, maybe we could try getting to know each other more, see if something clicks?” Michael offers, seeing as Regent Valenti isn’t going to relent in her attempt to match him with Maria.

“Oh, we all know how you get to know people _more_ ,” Kyle jokes, earning himself a blow to the top of his head from Isobel. “Ouch, that hurt.”

“You’re lucky I wasn’t aiming for your pretty face, doctor,” she grunts. 

“Well, what do we do now?” Michael asks, still glancing over at the screen where the image of Maria DeLuca looks frozen back at him. “Do I have to call her, set up a date or something?”

“I will make all the arrangements,” Regent Valenti replies. “She’ll be properly invited to spend some weeks here, along with the Ortecho sisters, since she doesn’t go anywhere without them. I’ll have her team explain the reasons behind the invitation. Her mother and grandmother have been trying to get her married for the longest time, but she’s rejected every suitor without even batting an eyelash.”

“Then why do you think she’ll agree to this now?” Isobel questions. It’s the first time she’s referred to Maria DeLuca in any form since the picture came up on the screen; Michael can tell she’s tense, her back gone too rigid all of a sudden, as she can’t quite keep her eyes off the screen. Michael’s well aware that they had clashed during the summer they all met, coincidentally attending the same parties and sleepovers throughout Europe; but that doesn’t explain the way Isobel’s jaw clenches at the image. He would have thought their rivalry had been long forgotten, but he isn’t fooling himself – whatever Maria did to Isobel, it isn’t like she has forgiven Maria for it. If looks could kill, Michael thinks to himself, Maria would have dropped dead out of the photograph.

“Because she has literally no other options,” Regent Valenti keeps talking, blissfully unaware of Michael’s train of thought. “If she doesn’t marry, one of the biggest businesses her family owns will go straight to some conflictive cousin of hers. She’s been refusing to marry for so long that no one else’s interested in proposing.”

“So there. It’s your only chance at ruling, and her only chance at keeping her family heritage,” Cam explains plainly. She squeezes Michael’s thigh. “I think this will work, if we play our cards right. You can get to know each other, and starting a marriage based on similar goals may strengthen your relationship in the long haul.”

“And we can kick that Lord Nonsense Manes in his perfect balls for even attempting to take Genovia from me,” Michael scoffs, placing his hand on top of Cam’s. “This is going to be easy. Piece of cake, I’m telling you.”

“Good to know you’re so positive about this, Michael,” Regent Valenti states, closing the folder with a soft _tap_. “Because I’ve invited Lord Alexander Manes to stay with us until the time’s up for you to get married.”

“You’ve done what?” Michael turns around, followed by Isobel and Max, who are wearing identical disbelieving grimaces in his not so identical faces. Cam remains still in her spot, munching over the chips as if this conversation isn’t affecting her at all, but Michael can tell she’s trying to rein in her anxiety by tapping her left foot on the floor. “You can’t go inviting the enemy to move in with us for the summer!”

“I think that’s exactly what she did,” Kyle snorts, sneaking a hand to catch a few of the chips Cam is offering him. Michael can see the motions in the corner of his eye, and has to suppress the need to roll them in annoyance. “She just invited the _enemy_ , and I, for once, don’t really understand why. Mother,” he continues, finally turning to face her, “why have you done that? It’s like you want him around to spoil all the efforts we’re going to have to make so Maria DeLuca falls for this idiot.”

“First, I’m no idiot,” Michael defends himself. “And two”

“We do _not_ have time for your antics, kids,” Regent Valenti scolds them affectionately. “I have spent the past ten years teaching you everything I know, Michael, and you have forgotten the most basic rule of it all.”

“Which is?”

“Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” she states with a small, unrepentant smile. When she deems that her words have sunk in, for the silence stretches on and none of the younger faces are silent, too busy staring agape at her, she finishes her speech. “He’ll be here at ten am sharp, so I’d suggest you go get a full night’s sleep. We’re entering a battlefield tomorrow.”

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

“Michael,” Isobel’s frantically calling him from the other side of the garage where he’s been hiding for the most part of the morning. “Michael, you have to come to the entrance hall _right now_.”

“I am _busy_ , Isobel, can’t you see?” he replies, arms deep down to the elbows in an engine. Whenever he’s nervous or needs an escape, he locks himself in that garage and begins working on one of the oldest cars stored there for ages, maybe too beaten up to be functional or maybe just forgotten when a newer, safer model came out. “Lord Bullshit isn’t supposed to be here for at least another hour.”

He dares a glance up at her, and is surprised to see Isobel dressed tastefully in a pastel pink dress coat, a light rosé bonnet, and her most expensive Louboutin stilettos, which she’s hysterically tapping on the ground as she speaks. Her clothes contrast with his old jeans, filthy from the dust and grease from the garage, and his ratty t-shirt which used to be white and now has turned into an undefined dirty beige. To top it all, he’s barefoot, because he doesn’t like the feeling of shoes on when he’s trying to work on grounding himself.

“That’s the problem!” she cries out. “You’ve been holed up here for far too long and it’s already ten past ten! You’re late to the welcome party!”

“What?” Michael drops whatever mechanical part he’s been holding, sending it on a spiral downwards, landing loudly onto the carburetor. “Why didn’t anyone tell me _sooner_?”

“Because you were nowhere to be found, Michael!”

“But you’re always so insistent with these things!” he laments as he straightens up and wipes his hands on his shirt, smearing oil across the whiteness of it. “A good king is always on time, Michael. You don’t want to be the last one to your own party, now do you, Michael? Why aren’t you a good Prince and follow my advice, Michael?”

“Stop mocking me and hurry up!” She scrunches her nose up at the sight of him in his soiled jeans and the ruined shirt. “There’s no time to get you changed, my god, Michael, where even are your shoes?” She stops him when he tries to look around for that particular piece of clothing. “No time for that! God, this is going to be the worst first impression ever! And Regent Valenti’s going to be so infuriated!”

“I love making her mad at me,” Michael grunts as he follows her across the gardens and into the main building, amazed at how proficient Isobel is at almost running in five inches heels. He has to jump here and there to avoid stepping on weeds and splinters even though they’re hurrying themselves over a paved path, until they’re faced with the flight of stairs that lead inside the palace. “It’s what I excel at,” he pants. “Plus, it’s not like I really _want_ Lord Whoever to like me, after all. I’ll make my best first impression when Maria DeLuca comes the day after tomorrow.”

Isobel chooses to ignore him as she climbs the last steps two at a time, Michael hot on her heels, until she stops dead in her tracks right before one of the most massive doors inside the palace. “Now,” she says turning to face him, doing her best to flatten his wild curls that are sticking everywhere with sweat and the cool air blowing in the gardens that have caught some leaves on Michael’s hair. “This is a disaster, but there’s no time.” From inside, Michael can hear muffled voices, and he can even make out Regent Valenti excusing him and explaining that he gets caught up in thinking sometimes that he forgets the time.

She’s not far off the truth, but he wishes she wouldn’t talk nonchalantly about him with a complete stranger.

“Let’s get in,” he says. “Lord Dingus will have to cope with this vision.”

Isobel sighs before opening the doors and stepping inside. Michael seizes the few seconds he has left to center himself, inhale deeply, and focus on the task at hand – introduce himself to the newcomer and promptly leave him to fend for himself as he flees the room so the rest can play niceties with the man attempting to steal the throne from him. Only when he can tell his breathing is steady does Michael dare to walk into the room, without shoes, wearing his oldest jeans and a shirt that’s seen better days. He can hear the disapproval gasps from Regent Valenti and her son; he can see out of the corner of his eye the way Max shakes his head in defeat; he can share a knowing smirk with Cam, who’s standing somewhere near Kyle Valenti wearing what Michael knows is her only skirt. It seems they all have made their introductions, for Isobel falls into place beside Max and looks at her hands as Michael keeps walking towards their guest.

There’s a silhouette against the fair light filtering through the wide windows of the reception room, propped on a crutch; Michael makes out a military uniform, cargo pants, a camouflage jacket and dark boots. He doesn’t remember if Lord Jesse Manes ever mentioned that his son was military just like him, but the bonnet that tops the attire shakes slightly as Michael’s approaching the center of the room, and the stranger starts to turn around just as Regent Valenti begins her introduction, “Lord Alexander, this is Prince Michael of Genovia, although I’m sure you’ve already heard of him. Prince Michael, please show your welcome to our guest, Lord Alexander Manes.”

“I’ve spent too many years abroad, Regent Valenti,” says the stranger, and that voice alone makes Michael falter. He’s never thought he’d hear it again, and definitely not in the reception room of his palace, five years after having parted with a sour soul and a bitter memory. When the stranger turns fully, Michael can see in his features the same confusion he’s feeling. “Guerin?”

Michael spares a second to appreciate the view in front of him: the dark mop of unruly hair sticking in every direction, longer than it had been back when they first met in that karaoke bar in Boston, the chocolate eyes that resemble wells of painful bottomless knowledge, the lips that can transform a grimace into a beautiful wide smile if properly prompted. Michael knows every inch of the man standing in front of him like his own skin, because he spent so long learning him. “Alex,” he blurts out, a surprised gasp in his breath. 

“Did you know each other?” Regent Valenti questions behind Michael, echoed by a choir of Max and Isobel’s voices mingled with Kyle’s huff and Cam’s quite nervous snort. “Michael?”

Michael can’t think properly, all the air escaping his lungs as he stares at Alex, a ghost in front of him, as he wonders briefly about the crutch that Alex hadn’t needed five years before, as he hesitates while wishing, hoping against hope, that he’d be allowed to touch him once again. Just once. Just like he vowed to do if he ever had the chance to hold Alex again. But fear and confusion give way to anger instead of melancholy, and he can’t control himself before sputtering, “What the fuck are you doing here?”


	2. twice as many stars in the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: _Because You Live_ by Jesse McCartney

For the brief second that takes him to roam his eyes once again over Alex's features, Michael forgets how to breathe. He's taken back to Boston, to the summer where they turned twenty-three, to long nights of endless giddiness and lazy mornings of deep love. He tries to shake his own feelings, reminding himself that it was just two weeks, that he was left hanging at dawn, but he finds it really difficult when he has Alex in front of him for the first time in five years. 

Michael inhales deeply, attempting to center himself and act like the heir to the throne he's been trying to become for a decade now. He closes his eyes and ignores the yelps and hushed voices at his back. When he opens them again to look straight into Alex's fathomless gaze, Michael is ready to confront this new situation from his position as Prince, instead of as a long lost lover. 

"Please forgive my manners," he says faintly. "I wasn't expecting you at all. Welcome to the palace, Lord Alexander. Now, if you'll excuse me." He makes a beeline for the door once again, skidding on the polished floor with his bare feet, squishing himself in between Regent Valenti and her son. He dismisses her questions, although he knows he will have to explain himself sooner rather than later, and flees to his room, his feet tapping softly the carpeted floors in his race against the clock to beat his own feelings threatening to overflow.

Only when he's securely locked into his chambers, back against the wooden door, does Michael allow himself to _feel_ , hot tears springing to his eyes as his hands resume shaking. He doesn't know how long he stays, half propped against the door, hunched over himself, hands on his bent knees as he fights for air and control of his emotions.

> His back is against the battered door of the pub’s toilet stall, holding it closed when even its hinges want to give up and fall down to pieces. Michael’s lost track of time as he’s been hiding in this spot for what seems like hours, until he can deem it safe to get out and not face Max and his rage. Michael’s fed up with Max’s overbearing attitude, and even if he’s tried to talk to him about boundaries and how he needs space to breathe and grow, Max is having none of that. Particularly when Michael wants to escape from Max’s hawk-like eyes during one of his too common night escapades to his usual bar downtown Boston.
> 
> “It’s my duty to keep you safe, Michael,” Max had said, voice even and grave. “You’re a prince now, Michael. You can’t go round drinking yourself silly and hooking up with random girls every night, _Michael_.”
> 
> Michael had had enough of Max acting both like his bodyguard and his father, and he’d seized the chance to hide from him the moment Max had been distracted by the bartender as he ordered a beer for Michael – _you can’t get wasted for the sixth night in a row, Michael_ – and a Coke for him – _one of us has to be the responsible one, Michael_ – and he’d run towards the far end of the bar, where the toilets were. Michael can hear Max’s voice in his mind, clear as daylight – _how unsuitable for a prince, Michael_ – and, in all honesty, he’s tired of hearing his name in iterations of three attached to all the things he will never learn to do properly.
> 
> He gives himself a few more minutes to be sure the coast’s clear, and only when the noise dulls outside the stall does Michael peel himself off the door and turn the knob. He’s completely alone in the bathroom, he finds out when he steps outside, and for that he sighs in relief. Now he has to duck outside of the bathrooms and into the bar, but when he sticks his curly head out of the glassy door Michael can see Max and Jenna glaring into the crowd sticking in the center of the dance floor. He has to be smart about his escape plan, or he risks being caught – and he fears Regent Valenti’s wrath more than any lecture by Max supported by Jenna.
> 
> Michael waits for a few beats as the music makes people sway, colliding into each other, and takes advantage of a group of college students passing nearby to mingle with them and find his way outside/out of the pub. He just needs some cool air to clear his head and then he can come back inside and tease Max and Jenna about their inability to keep him put. But his plans go completely askew when he hears soft music coming out of the karaoke bar opposite the pub he’s just got outside of. Michael feels drawn to the sound, attracted to it by a force that’s stronger than his own will. He doesn’t even realize he’s started walking until he’s pushing the door of the karaoke bar open and he’s peeking inside to find out where the music is coming from – there’s a stage in the middle of the bar, but from his angle he can only see the legs of a pair of jeans and a guitar on someone’s lap. He walks by a high table with some half-empty glasses on it, trying to get closer to the stage where he has now focused his attention. He catches his feet on a carpet and stumbles forward, but he manages to right himself before he falls face first and makes a fool of himself, but he still tips the glasses over and makes them all? fall to the ground, breaking in millions of shards. A few heads turn to see where the noise has come from, and Michael feels himself blushing to the roots of his hair. He keeps walking once he’s found his balance, searching for a free spot and clutching at the walls just in case he trips over nothing again. 
> 
> The moment the owner of the hands holding the guitar begins singing, Michael realizes he would walk on fire if he got to listen to that sound every waking second for the rest of his life.

It feels like only seconds have passed before he hears a rapping on the door, startling him awake from his self-deprecation pity party. "Michael," he hears.

For as much as he's been waiting for Regent Valenti to come talk to him, he isn't ready for that conversation. He chooses to ignore the warning in that voice, leaning harder against the door. 

“Michael, I know you’re in there,” Regent Valenti tries again, this time softer. “Please, let me in.”

“I don’t want to talk, okay?” he says, cringing at the way his voice quavers as he speaks. “Just leave me alone. By dinner I’ll be the perfect host again.”

“It’s not about being the perfect host, Michael,” Regent Valenti muses at the other side of the door. From the gentle _thud_ , Michael can tell she’s leaned onto her side of the door. “It’s about being comfortable, and I can tell something’s going on between Lord Alexander and you. _Everyone_ saw it.”

“Let me be,” he pleads once again. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. I was just–it surprised me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting him.”

“So you already knew him?” Regent Valenti asks with a hum, but there’s nothing prying in her words. 

Michael sighs. He doesn’t know how to reply, because he thinks he once knew the man Alex Manes was, but right now he isn’t sure about the stranger who looked back at him before, when he rushed back inside the Palace to meet the other suitable heir to Genovia. 

“I’m not asking about details, Michael,” she offers through the door. “I just need to know if this is going to turn even more problematic than it already is.”

“It won’t,” he promises. “We–I–It’s going to be fine, Michelle,” he finally whispers. “I promise, there won’t be any trouble on my part. I can’t speak on his behalf, though.”

“Quit the bullshit,” comes in Isobel’s voice, and Michael realizes she has been there all along. It makes him wonder if the rest of the group are also around to witness his downfall. “What’s going on, Michael? Who’s this guy?”

“No one,” he replies, biting back a snarkier remark and suppressing the need to smack his own head against the door. “Can’t you all just let me be for a while? I promise I’ll be all fixed up by dinner!”

“Well, your _no one_ has certainly got to you,” Kyle muses; Michael’s about to open the door and yell at them until they retreat. “If it’s going to take you until dinner to get over it. It’s just Alex Manes.”

“Why can’t you all leave a man be?” Michael cries out, turning around and yanking the door open. He faces them as a whole – Regent Valenti staring seriously at him, Kyle looking as smug as always, Isobel and Max wearing matching worried looks, and Jenna blinking at him with that knowing look she always gets when she realizes something that’s always been there, laid open before her, but she’s been too blind to actually see it. Michael sees the moment realization clicks in her mind, barely a flicker in her gaze, and she squares her shoulders. “Jenna–”

“We should go,” she announces, taking the liberty of grabbing Regent Valenti by her arm. Jenna earns herself a startled yelp from her, but she keeps tugging, because she knows that if Regent Valenti takes the lead in leaving, the rest will follow. “Don’t make yourself scarce until dinner, Michael,” she warns. “I hope to be meeting you by the greenhouse in about an hour and a half? Just you and I, like the old times,” she winks at him as she drags Regent Valenti onwards through the hallway, followed by the others. Max casts one last glance his way before turning on his heels and strutting to reach the group. 

Michael sighs when he sees the last of them turning away in the corridor, only allowing himself to close the heavy door when he's left completely alone. 

"A shower it is," he mutters to himself after sniffing through his stained over-worn t-shirt. He strolls purposefully towards the en suite bathroom, shrugging off his filthy clothes, not bothering to pick a fresh change of jeans. He will probably just slip into some sweatpants to meet Jenna at the greenhouse. 

Once inside the shower stall, with the spray hitting all the sore spots in his neck and back that he didn't know he had, Michael rests his forehead against the tiles while his mind wanders to a different moment in time, when he'd been younger, carefree, _happier_.

> "A beer, please," he orders the bartender as he sits on a stool, back to the stage where the guitar keeps calling out to him. "And a shot of Jaeger." 
> 
> He doesn't want to acknowledge the man on the stage, suddenly too aware of his flaws when the singer is pouring out his soul. But he doesn't have any chance out of it when the music stops, the crowd claps and the man scrambles off the stage and into the nearest stool. "A beer, please, and a shot of Jaeger," he commands, voice deep and authoritative when his singing had been soft and warm. 
> 
> Michael chuckles at the parallel, and his snort doesn't get unnoticed. 
> 
> "What's so funny?" 
> 
> It takes Michael a second to realize that the man is talking to him. He sobers up a bit before turning to his left and giving this stranger a proper once over: really short black hair, deep intense eyes, and a stance that Michael has learnt to recognize as military. 
> 
> "I just ordered the same with those exact words," he explains. 
> 
> The singer looks back at him with the faintest hint of interest in his chocolate eyes before nodding slightly. The bartender places two beers and two translucent shots in front of them, stating the price and waiting for them to pay. 
> 
> "Please, let me," Michael finds himself saying, wallet already in hand as he takes out a couple of bills.
> 
> "I can pay for my own drinks, thank you," the singer quips, reaching out to stop Michael by putting his hand on top of Michael’s own scarred hand. They both freeze at the touch, and for a moment neither says a thing, Michael too lost for words. There's a beat passing between them until the singer relents, eyes darting to their linked hands. 
> 
> "I'm Alex," he says in a soft voice that reminds Michael of the lyrics and the music. 
> 
> "Everyone calls me Guerin." 
> 
> "Nice to meet you, Guerin," Alex smiles, not fazed by the lack of first name, taking his hand from Michael’s. Michael instantly misses the warmth of skin on skin. Michael throws the bills onto the counter without breaking eye contact, too drawn into his gaze to even pay attention to anything else.
> 
> “You have a really nice voice,” Michael says when the silence stretches far too long for his liking, finally looking at his beer instead of at Alex. “Though I didn’t know that song, to be honest.”
> 
> “It’s mine,” Alex confesses, grabbing his shot and downing it quickly. “I write, sometimes.”
> 
> Michael nods, itching to take that hand again and feel the heat engulfing his fingers. But he doesn’t budge, too scared to break whatever frail balance they’ve reached in the few minutes they’ve been talking. “Do you come here often?”
> 
> “When I’m on leave,” Alex replies, confirming Michael’s suspicions that he’s military. “But now I’m stationed nearby for the time being, so it’s easier for me to come here on open mic nights.” 
> 
> Michael can’t help the smile that spreads through his face when he dares to ask, “So, there’s a chance I get to hear you singing soon?” But what he really wants to ask is _is there any chance on Earth that I can see you again,_ but he doesn’t say the words because he’s been trying to refrain himself from coming down too hard on people – Max is always insisting on how he has to be a bit more tactful, a bit less intense.
> 
> “Only if you’re lucky,” Alex bites back, smirk in place as he sips from his beer.
> 
> Michael’s lucky enough to walk out of that karaoke bar with Alex’s phone number that night.

One of the things he doesn’t miss from his truck is the water shortage. In this palace, and ever since Regent Valenti found him in the back of his Chevy so many years ago, Michael has never once had to cut short his use of any of the resources – be it hot water, food supplies, air conditioning or even heat. So if Michael spends forty-five minutes under the hot spray, allowing the stream to wash the oil from his skin and the sins from his soul, no one has to know. No one’s ever bothered with his habit of spending way too much time doing things that people who’ve grown up with everything at hand usually don’t take so long in doing.

When he steps out of the shower, Michael dries the water drops from his body and the tears from his face, shaking his head stubbornly when he can’t seem to will his eyes to stop crying. After five years, he would have thought he’d be over everything that happened between them, but apparently his abandonment issues still get the best of him. He grabs a pair of sweatpants and decides against a shirt or shoes. He loves being barefoot, and it’s hot enough in the greenhouse to guarantee he’d be out of his shirt anyway. He bursts out of his room and into the hallway without taking his eyes off the floor, just in case anyone wanted to stop him – he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, not even Jenna, but he knows her well enough to be sure that she won’t leave him alone until she’s got whatever she wants to say through him.

The greenhouse stands in the middle of the covered gardens by the west side of the palace. It’s a beautiful structure, all crystal and metal melding together under a dome that allows rainbows of colors and ribbons of light through the wide glass panels. Inside the building, half-hidden from the shadows dancing beneath the windows, a diverse and varied collection of flowers from all around the world, as well as some centuries-old trees, whose tops overflow the ceiling and can be seen from outside peeking through the open dormers. 

Standing with her back against the transparent wall, one foot up against the metallic junctures, Jenna is looking up at him as Michael makes his way down the paved path. She puffs a ring of smoke from her cigarette as she waits for him to reach the entrance. “Took you long enough,” she greets him when he stops by her side. “Get on in,” she commands, kicking her foot on the floor and turning around to enter the greenhouse. He follows her inside, fully aware that they’ll be inside a building with see-through walls.

Jenna walks down the paths further into the greenhouse until she finds a bench near the topaz roses Regent Valenti has told him time and again that were his mother’s favorites. He prefers the free spirit roses, for obvious reasons. Michael sits down beside Jenna on the bench, and waits for her to produce a joint from her pocket and light it. After she’s taken a puff, she passes it to him.

“Well,” she starts right after he’s lifted the joint to his lips. “I take it Lord Alexander Manes is the guy who swept you off your feet five years ago in Boston.”

Michael almost chokes on the joint, her words too forward for his liking. But he’s always enjoyed that trait of Jenna’s personality and he’s not about to start calling her on it now. Instead, he inhales shakily, and passes her the joint. 

“How long have you known?” he asks, hoping it comes out as casual as he wants it to sound, even if inside he’s dreading the answer. Because if Jenna knows, there’s no way Max doesn’t know, and if Max knows – if Max knows, then he’s busted.

“It was pretty obvious,” Jenna explains. “Once you know where to look, really.” Under Michael’s scrutiny, she shrugs. “Okay, okay, I saw you, are you happy now?” she finally confesses. “One of the nights you thought you’d managed to avoid us, I saw you sneaking into the karaoke bar. Max had been pretty adamant about going out that particular night, but you were so invested in getting drunk at the same bar over and over again, and you’d already dodged us far too many times. So I kept an eye on you and after a while you left with someone, but I couldn’t see his face. I was so sure it was a guy, though—I wasn’t mistaken, was I?” She leans into his personal space, head on his shoulder as the joint keeps passing from her hands to his, back and forth. There’s a little comfort in her motion, her presence warming his soul like she always does.

> For their second date, Michael takes Alex to the MIT Museum for a nightly, private visit after having dinner at a fancy restaurant down the street. He guides Alex through the empty halls, showing the different artifacts on display, taking advantage of his position as an undergraduate student, working for the museum’s research department to sneak his way inside after hours.
> 
> “This is so incredible,” Alex whispers in awe as they stroll through the different exhibitions. He stops in front of one 3D sculpture that seems to be infinite, a man in motion running around. There’s a device next to the sculpture. “What’s this for?”
> 
> “This is called _In Motion_ ,” Michael explains, secretly glad that Alex has appreciated what happens to be his favorite part of the museum. “This,” he says pointing at the device, “films the people around and transforms those images into a 3D sculpture that shows the motions. It’s pretty cool actually.”
> 
> “Does it transform anything?” Alex asks, sliding a finger over the slender edges of the device, eyes locked with Michael’s.
> 
> They have been flirting the whole night, but every time Alex has seemed to take a step further, Michael chickened out. He’s nervous, his palms are sweating and he can feel his heart beating twice as fast as it should, just because he has Alex in his vicinity. He doesn’t know what a kiss would do to his already endangered sanity. Maybe he would spontaneously combust.
> 
> Seeing Alex standing in the middle of the empty room, looking up at him as though Michael is the most amazing treasure found in the world, has Michael already gasping for air. He doesn’t think, even for a second, about the consequences of what he’s going to do. He just takes a leap of faith, and jumps off the ledge of his anxiety.
> 
> He leans forward, capturing Alex’s lips in a tentative kiss as he moves them in front of the device. Alex pushes slightly at him, blinking at Michael as if deciding if whatever this is _real_ , and he kisses back, the device filming their movements and forming a wonderful, white recreation of them linked forever in an embrace larger than life.
> 
> Michael feels like flying and soaring and falling deep into the abyss, and for the first time in forever, he doesn’t think he’ll end up bruised and broken at the end of the precipice. This time, Alex catches him.
> 
> “I will catch you forever,” Alex whispers against Michael’s skin. “I will protect you forever.”
> 
> Michael believes him. That night, he surrenders his whole self, heart and soul, giving everything he has and not daring to ask for anything in return. Alex just gives as much as he takes, and when he has to go come morning, Michael is left with a weight lifted from his shoulders and from his heart.
> 
> They keep dancing, step by step, until one night Michael asks Alex to stay, and Alex accepts. And for almost a fortnight Michael lives in blissful ignorance of a love that’s blooming like the flowers blossom in spring – not caring for a second when neither of them gets out of the house for days on end, only answering the calls from Max and Jenna once a day reassuring them that he’s doing fine even if he isn’t coming back to the real world anytime soon. How he manages to convince both his bodyguards to allow him a breather is something that he doesn’t understand, but he isn’t going to worry about it when he’s granted the allowance to live his life without question. 
> 
> Michael’s happy for as long as it takes destiny to blow his life up into tiny pieces.

Michael closes his eyes, the hurt those memories bring to the front of his mind still too raw for him to handle right now. The night Jenna’s talking about is the night he vowed his life to Alex. Thirteen days later he’d come back to them, defeated and abandoned, back under Max’s radar. He wants to ask her why she didn’t say a thing, how come she accepted him back with open arms when he’d showed up, soul battered and heart bruised. He doesn’t.

“It’s just him,” he whispers instead, as he fights the tears from spilling. He hates being so emotional after all this time and all the pain. “Screws me up.”

Jenna nods slowly against his shoulder in silent acknowledgement. They don’t move at all, remaining quiet for the longest time, until the sun is setting in the horizon and it’s time for them to get ready for the first dinner of many in the summer of Michael’s engagement.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

Maria DeLuca is a wave of fresh air rushing through the corridors. Michael can hear her from his spot up in the staircase, chatting with Regent Valenti as they wait for him to show up, true to his usual fashion. He doesn’t think he’s been on time for any appointment in his life, except for the AP exams back at high school when he still thought he had a chance at the full ride to UNM.

Michael peeks through the balustrade stairs, catching a glimpse of dark skin and darker hair, and a calm voice with a tinge of amusement to it. Although he’s not that much convinced about the arranged marriage issue, Michael’s starting to like the idea of getting to know Maria DeLuca better before proposing – something everyone knows he’ll end up doing. He clears his throat, checks that his tie is in place, and walks downstairs as elegantly as he can. On the last step, however, he trips over his own feet and stumbles forward, catching himself at the last moment before landing on his face in front of his fiancée-to-be. 

“Michael,” Regent Valenti scolds him, her voice ice as he gathers himself once again and straightens his white shirt. “Please be a gentleman and greet our guests properly. Milady, I apologize on his behalf.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Maria replies, stretching her right arm so he has to grab her hand carefully to kiss her knuckles. “And please, call me Maria. Whenever anyone calls me _milady,_ I keep looking around for my mother.”

Michael chuckles lightly at her words. “Welcome to Genovia,” he smiles nonchalantly, fully aware that she already knows who he is and why they’re standing in the middle of the reception room on a Thursday morning. “I’m really glad you accepted our invitation to spend a few weeks with us. You’re going to love it here.”

“I hope so,” she acquiesces. A few feet behind her, at her left, a petite figure moves forward, followed by another one, slightly taller. “This is Elizabeth Ortecho, one of my best friends, and her sister Rosa. I believe the invitation was extended to them as well, right?”

“Of course it was,” Regent Valenti hurriedly intervenes. “Please allow me to show you to your rooms. Follow me this way.” She begins walking, the three young women following her through the hallways. Michael is left alone in the reception room; he hates being summoned for just a brief moment, but that’s his life now. He’s got to answer to Regent Valenti’s beck and call, and Michael can’t wait to be king to be able to set his own pace.

> It’s easy to settle into a routine with Alex. Even if he doesn’t know much about the singer, Michael feels like they’re made for each other. There are lazy kisses in the morning and frenzy touches at nights, sweet caresses while the coffee is brewing and fiery biting whenever dark engulfs them in the bedroom they now share, back to Michael’s apartment.
> 
> “Aren’t you needed at the base?” Michael asks one morning, stepping behind Alex in the small kitchen and crowding him with his arms on each side of Alex’s. 
> 
> “Do you already want me out?” Alex jokes as he grabs a mug from the cabinet and pours coffee into it. He manages to turn around in Michael’s arms, facing him with a smug smile on his face.
> 
> “Never,” Michael vows fervently, leaning in to kiss Alex good morning softly, slowly. The mug swings in Alex’s hand as he kisses back, his whole body responding to Michael’s ministrations as his hands leave the counter and roam up Alex’s arms. “Just wondering, that’s all,” he breathes out in between kisses.
> 
> “Told you I’m on leave,” Alex explains again. 
> 
> “I must have been distracted when you told me,” Michael whispers against Alex’s neck, where he’s latched his lips onto a particularly sensitive spot that he’s learned is the perfect place to suck Alex’s skin and reduce him to a whimpering boneless heap. Michael’s hands finally get underneath the shirt Alex wears to sleep – _if_ they get to actual sleep – only to reveal the fading? white scars he’s been dying to ask about. Alex follows his gaze and sighs.
> 
> “Don’t,” he pleads. “Not yet.”
> 
> And Michael, who’s beginning to comprehend that he’s not able to deny anything to Alex, just nods. He would give anything to soothe the pain that sparks in Alex’s eyes whenever Michael brushes over one cigarette burn or nail shaped scar, but he can’t help Alex if he doesn’t want to be helped. Michael can only wait, and wait, until Alex is ready.
> 
> “I just don’t want you to think I’m weak,” Alex mutters. Michael just keeps kissing Alex’s neck, a moan escaping his throat as he bites down. “They’re not all from war.”
> 
> “I’ll be here when you’re ready,” Michael promises, stepping back long enough to pry the mug from Alex’s fingers and place it on top of the counter. “Not going anywhere.”
> 
> It’s not until some time later, when they’re both lying in bed, sweat cooling down on their skins and eyes heavy with sleep, that Alex begins the tale of his childhood and how he lost his mother at such a tender age that he doesn’t even remember her face, just her scent – lavender and sandalwood; how he grew up with a father who thought he could beat the gay out of him on a daily basis until he could turn Alex into the little soldier he was supposed to become; how he would hide his bruises at school and from his older brothers when they came back from their deployments. How in the end he had caved because it was easier to follow his father’s rules than to rebel.
> 
> Michael never understood what the words _a real Manes man_ really meant until long after Alex had left him lingering on the edge of insanity.

"A penny for your thoughts," he hears at his back, the voice startling him slightly. When he turns around, he seems Alex standing by the last step of the staircase, a thin book in his hands and a wistful look in his eyes.

"Nothing you'd care about," Michael replies curtly. "If you'll excuse me," he tries to flee but he can't move, pinned to his spot by Alex’s eyebrow arched in his direction. "I have to make sure my guests are comfortable enough." 

"New guests?" Alex doesn't budge, but his grip on the book tightens. 

"Yeah," Michael can't help the snarl in his voice. "Hopefully one that will stick around." 

"Oh," Alex smirks at him, and Michael gets transported to a different time, when that smirk had been the start of fun antics with breathless outcomes. "You've found yourself someone who might want to marry you?" 

"It's still early," Michael retaliates. "But she's cute, and clever, and she'd make a great queen if things got to that point." 

"Ah, I see. I haven't heard about _love_ in your speech, Guerin." 

Michael thinks he's imagining the tinge of pain in Alex's voice. 

"It'll come, with time," he frowns at his guest. "I'd have time for wooing and love if you weren't trying to steal the throne off me," he ends up accusing. 

Alex has the decency to look stricken. For a long moment they just stare at each other, Michael weighing his options – Alex is so close, orbiting towards him like a satellite to its home planet, or maybe it's Michael the one drawn to Alex's orbit – but the seconds tick away until the silence is replaced by the tiptoeing of heels coming the way Regent Valenti and the girls have walked away. 

"I'm not trying to steal anything from you," Alex finally mutters. "Quite the opposite, in fact." 

Michael is torn between the need to tell Alex off for his blatant lie and the urge to kiss the sudden pained look from the face he'd mapped out with his lips back in Boston. He leans forward, his marred hand itching to touch, slightly lifting on its own volition. He's cut off mid-motion – unsure whether he meant to shove Alex away or hold him close – by Isobel entering the space with a determined stride. 

"Michael!" she calls out, stopping her steps when she notices Alex standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. "Lord Alexander," she greets with a nod of her head. "Michael, Lady Maria is waiting for you to meet her for a walk through the gardens. Regent Valenti has sent me to fetch you and accompany you both." 

"I have to go," Michael says to Alex, lips a tight thin line. "Enjoy the rest of your morning, Lord Alexander." 

And without further ado, he walks out of the room, followed closely by Isobel. He doesn't look back as the two of them hurry through the corridors. 

"I don't think Maria and I need a chaperone," Michael hums as they slow down their steps. He's noticed the way Isobel tenses up whenever Maria is mentioned, and he doesn't want her to be subjected to an experience she won't enjoy at all. It's already too bad that he has to go through the motions of fake wooing someone into marrying him for his kingdom. "I'm pretty sure the Ortecho sisters will be around. There's no need for you to come with us if you don't feel like it." 

“I _have_ to,” Isobel insists. 

They’re reaching the arbor surrounding the back of the palace, but Michael has the need to stop and make sure Isobel is alright. When he grabs her arm and forces her to turn around and face him, her features are a mask. 

“I have to make sure you’re doing alright, you know. This is _big_ ,” she keeps on when his sole reaction is to arch an eyebrow. “The whole kingdom depends on your ability to convince Maria DeLuca of the advantages of marrying into royalty. And we both know you’re helpless when it comes to dating.”

“That’s just harsh,” Michael jokes, lifting his grasp on her enough for Isobel to take a step back. “You know I consider you my sister, Isobel. I want you to be at ease with this whole ordeal, and somehow I can sense that Maria and you won’t get along nicely.”

“We will,” Isobel tightens her jaw, freeing herself completely from Michael’s grasp. “I promise you, this will be perfect, okay? Trust me, and do as I say, and you’ll have her wrapped around your finger in no time.”

Michael watches as Isobel puts her mask back up, whatever emotions she’s trying to conceal safely tucked away under her bright blue eyes and the polite smile she’s learned to wear when she wants to get her way. He sighs. He doesn’t want to push, but he has the feeling there’s much more hidden in the way she’s attempting to hide her feelings from him. “I trust you,” he finally relents. “I hope you know you can trust me, too.”

“I’ll trust you with my life,” Isobel promises, this time heading for the steps that lead to the back gardens. “Ready for this?”

“I was born ready!” he protests, feigning offense, but follows her all the same.

Outside, sitting on a bench facing the stretch of green, Maria and Liz and Rosa are talking softly. Michael takes a second to center himself before sauntering outside with his most charming smile plastered on his face. 

"Lady Maria," he greets. "Miss Ortecho, Miss Ortecho." 

"Prince Michael," the three women acknowledge him, looking up when he’s still a few feet from them, Isobel pale and wobbling by his side. 

"Miss Evans. Would you like to sit down with us?" Maria offers, patting the free spot by her side on the bench as Liz and Rosa move out of the space. 

"You don't have to go," Michael says, but the sisters are already looking for a different place to sit. 

"These gardens are beautiful," Isobel speaks, voice quivering a tiny bit before she steadies herself. "I can gladly show you around while Prince Michael and Lady Maria share an enjoyable talk." 

Michael can swear Isobel's words are laced with a pain so deep that it cuts through the air and slices his heart in two. He makes a mental note to talk to her later and figure out what has her so worked up. For now, though, he just watches as Isobel leads the Ortecho sisters down the path, not too far but distanced enough to give Maria and him a semblance of intimacy. 

"Maria," he starts, knowing fully well that she hates being addressed by any of her titles. "It's a pleasure to have you here in Genovia." 

"Ah, Guerin, always the gentleman," she sighs, tearing her eyes from the three women who are now admiring one of the large cypresses casting shadows through the gardens. "I can see right through you." 

"Well, you've always prided yourself on being a psychic," Michael huffs. "And what do you see?" 

"Cut your crap," she says harshly. "We both know why I'm here, Guerin. Don’t even bother to ask, you already know the answer. You need this, I need this. We both need each other to maintain our current lifestyles." 

Michael shrugs. He's known Maria for several years now, and she'd always been straightforward. He hasn't been expecting anything less from the truth from her, but her eyes are clouded and guarded, her hands flexing in fists and loosening up. 

"Way to kill the romance, DeLuca," he says instead of pointing out her evident discomfort. "Yeah, it would look like I might need a spouse to keep the kingdom. Some bastard has decided to show up and try to steal the throne from me." 

"Last time we talked, you didn't really give a fuck about the throne," she calls him out. Michael can tell that bitching is her way of relaxing. "Who should we thank for that?" 

"It's not as though you're not profiting from that," Michael states plainly. "Does this mean I don't need to woo you? Will you marry me so we can both scratch each other's itches? " 

"Your idea of a proposal is really engaging, Guerin," she deadpans. "It's a wonder that you don't have thousands of girls at your feet." 

"I'll have you know that I used to be a real heartbreaker," he informs Maria, who just laughs. "What's so funny?" 

"Nothing, Guerin," she shrugs as her laughter dies. "Guess we're doing this, aren't we?" 

"Jesus, DeLuca, don't make it sound like a chore. I know I am really entertaining. You won't get bored." 

"You sure know how to sell yourself. We'll have to talk about arrangements for after the wedding, but I guess it's safe to say that we should be planning a wedding." 

Michael nods, signaling for Isobel to come around when he catches her eye. She's still looking weary and walking with an uncertainty that wasn't there before. Isobel guides the Ortecho sisters back to where Maria and Michael are sitting; Rosa sounding really excited as they saunter towards the bench.

"So, do I need to start planning a wedding?" Isobel cuts in, her voice sharp and her eyes steel ice. 

"You could say so," Maria replies with what Michael thinks is feigned disdain. She turns to Liz and Rosa, who have been caught up with a particularly beautiful lily growing on the sideway. 

“I’ll get some press clip ready about this whole thing,” Isobel keeps talking, even if she’s seemingly lost Maria’s attention. “The journalists will want to know how you proposed, how flustered she was, all that jazz.”

“Make something up,” Michael shrugs. “It’s not like it was going to be romantic anyway.”

“Okay,” Isobel replies, biting her lower lip and turning as the Ortecho sisters approach them, the older one skidding through the last few feet of gravel path.

"Maria," Rosa calls out. "You wouldn't even guess who's staying at the palace right now." 

"Apart from us?" Maria smiles at her friend, a true open smile that has Michael wondering if he's ever going to be on the receiving end of such mirth. 

"Alex Manes!" Liz exclaims. "Isn't it such a wonderful coincidence?" 

"Wait," Michael shakes his head. "Do you all know Alex Manes?" 

"Yeah," Rosa is practically bursting with excitement. "We all went to the same boarding school. He's such a sweetie. Pity his father convinced him to enlist. He always wanted to make music." 

Michael swallows. Isobel reached out to him as he tries to stand up, failing in his first attempt as he falls back down to the bench. "Are you alright, Michael?" Maria asks. 

"He's surely not a _sweetie_ ," he manages to choke out. 

"Why would you say so?" Liz questions. 

"Because he's the one attempting to steal the kingdom from me," he finally explains, when his silence stretches for far too long and Isobel arches an eyebrow at him. "Apparently his mother was Genovian nobility." 

"What a strange outcome," Maria muses. "Alex didn't want anything to do with his heritage, after his mother passed away. Why would he step now and claim his right?" 

"Technically, it was his father," Isobel quips in. 

"Jesse's behind this?" Rosa almost screeches, catching herself on the verge of yelling. "Well, there you have your reason." 

"Alex is harmless," Maria explains solemnly. 

"As harmless as a war veteran can be, anyway," Liz interrupts. 

"He _is_ harmless," Maria repeats. "Whatever he's doing here, it has nothing to do with his father's plans for him." 

“I’d put that thought on hold for a while,” Michael sighs. “We still need this marriage.”

“So, should I talk to Regent Valenti and begin the preparations?” Isobel says; Michael can tell there are tears in her eyes, but she sniffles and looks away when Maria nods her consent. He wants to ask, he wants to reach out and just _hug_ her, but Isobel walks away as gracefully as she can manage, leaving him with his new fiancée and her best friends.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

The party is in full swing when Michael makes his way through the glass doors and into the gardens. He has to admit that Isobel has outdone herself – there are pear-shaped treats hanging off the well-trimmed bushes, a canopy in the middle of the fields catering to everyone invited to the most spectacular engagement party that Genovia has seen in ages. He walks in buttoning one of his cufflinks, tie loose on his neck, white shirt pressed and neat against his skin. The jacket is giving him a hard time, since it’s too hot to be wearing a suit, but Isobel insisted on the etiquette and dress code. Michael has never been able to deny her anything, and these past days she’s been acting so weird – so that even Max has caught upon her swinging moods – that Michael has eagerly accepted to become a penguin in disguise for her.

He catches a glimpse of Maria, dressed in baby blue, pastel ribbons adorning the braids Michael’s sure are Rosa’s making. He waves at her, intent on getting by her side to greet their guests, but he’s swept away by Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud. Michael ends up talking to some of the Board members for the longest time, instead of shielding himself behind Maria’s bright smile and sheer sympathy. When he’s finally free from his duties, Michael glances around but his fiancé is nowhere to be found; he doesn’t see Jenna, Isobel or Max, and the Ortecho sisters are also seemingly gone. He can feel Jesse Manes’ eyes on him at every movement he makes, at every pause to grab a bite or to greet some new guest who either gets to the party or inevitably leaves it. With a sigh, he resorts to avoid Regent Valenti and Kyle when he spots them by the left end of the canopy by walking the other way into the maze of bushes decorating the outside ring of the gardens.

Michael walks on his own for a while, getting lost in the maze of green and blue and beige. He takes a few turns, breathing in the scent of roses and bergamot and freesias, allowing his psyche to calm down because everything he’s lived through these past days has sent him back into spiraling. He hasn’t missed the old times when he couldn’t get his mind to take a break, chaotic and loud and distressed. He found a way to focus for a while, but even the arms guarding him from the rest of the world had left him, naked and exposed. Michael doesn’t want to dwell on that past even if it repeatedly comes back to haunt him.

He’s well deep into the maze when he’s startled to hear familiar voices speaking in hushed tones, but the silence surrounding the bushes is enough for the words to carry through the air.

“I wish things were different, darling,” he hears Maria whispering. He blinks. “But this is what I have to do, and it’s real luck that Michael needed a wife as well, because I wouldn’t have been able to be so close to you otherwise.”

“I just don’t want you to get married to anyone but _me_ ,” comes Isobel’s voice in reply, just when Michael thought he couldn’t be more surprised. “Even if it’s to Michael, and don’t tell me it’s convenient. I know it’s convenient! I planned this whole _thing_ for both of you!”

“Don’t cry, honey,” Maria coos, voice dropping. “We’ll find a way, you’ll see. Everything will work out in the end.”

“I just don’t know how, when you’ll be married and forced to have children and–”

“Don’t think about that now, Iz,” he hears Maria hush her, the telltale sound of fabric rustling the ground as he believes Maria is hugging Isobel tightly against her chest. He can almost picture them in his mind – Isobel cradled in Maria’s embrace, her purple dress in sharp contrast with Maria’s baby blue, her blonde locks intertwining with Maria’s darker braids, hands grabbing at the ribbons as she sobs quietly. His heart breaks for her; Michael forces himself to keep walking, ashamed that he’s eavesdropped such an intimate moment, even if it somehow included him.

Still shaken by what he has just heard, his mind not yet wrapped around the meaning of those words, Michael stumbles upon Alex Manes, who’s avoiding the whole party by sitting on a bench in the maze, reading a book, legs outstretched in a way that makes Michael trip over them. Michael’s ankle stings as it collides against metal instead of flesh, and he staggers forward, one knee crashing down to the ground. Alex yelps, jumping up to his feet, and he manages to grip Michael’s jacket sleeve before he falls. “Are you okay?” Alex asks as he pulls Michael up by the sleeve. “You have to be more careful, you could have injured yourself. Badly.”

“I’m fine,” Michael grunts, searching his suit for any damages as he roams his hands over the fabric, smoothing it. “Be more careful _yourself_ , it was your legs in the middle of the path!”

The disgust lingering in his voice is enough to force Alex to take a step back, fingers letting go of Michael's jackets where he has been holding onto it. Michael takes a second to give Alex a once over – tailored dark blue jacket, soft-looking dark chinos, and what could be designer deck shoes. He is even wearing a white shirt with a dark patterned tie. Michael has seen so many just like him in the ten years he’s been associating with Royalty, he thinks he can call them out on always dressing like in uniform.

Alex is still looking at him with concern, hands fallen on his side, balled into loose fists as Michael can tell he's struggling not to reach out and make sure he hasn't earned himself any cut or bruise.

Michael scoffs as he straightens up to look straight into Alex’s eyes, and he can see worry in them. He relents, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, relieving the knee that crashed into the ground from some tension. 

"What happened?" he asks, gesturing towards Alex's right leg. 

"Nothing you have to worry about, Guerin," Alex replies, running absentmindedly at some spot in his neck. "It's part of the deal when you go to war." 

"Giving up parts of yourself to violence is the new way to make daddy proud?" Michael snarls, viciously. He sees the sting of pain in Alex's chocolate eyes, but he keeps going, "Is he happy now, that you're following in his steps like a real Manes man?" 

"Three quarters of one," Alex finally retaliates, leaning slightly in to tap on his right leg, the metallic reverberation turning Michael's stomach upside down. "And I wouldn't know, about him being _proud_. I even doubt he's even capable of being happy. I just try not to get in the way of what he wants to do." 

Michael allows his gaze to roam downwards and upwards on Alex’s frame, from his wild mop of black hair to the tip of his designer shoes, to stop on the lips whose taste Michael still remembers. He wars with himself for the longest time, swaying in place while he decides whether or not following his heart is worth the pain he can feel looming over him. Michael itches to touch – has been fighting the urge to caress every inch of Alex’s exposed skin over the shirt from the very moment he realized who the stranger wanting to steal the throne from him was – but he’s beaten to it when Alex steps closer, leaving them separated only by the tiniest breath.

“And you?” Michael finally asks, shaking with a desire he hasn’t allowed himself to feel. “What do you want, Alex?”

“What I want,” Alex answers after a beat, holding his breath and it’s all Michael can do to not launch himself to him and kiss Alex senseless. There’s a hint of despair in the way Alex is looking back at Michael, as though he can’t believe they’re so close again, when five years ago Alex hadn’t hesitated in leaving Michael behind with so much as a second glance. “What I want doesn’t matter.”

At that, Michael just jumps forward and grabs Alex by the lapels of his jacket, launching himself until he’s colliding against Alex’s lips, stealing the breath from both of them as he kisses Alex. For a moment, Michael fears that Alex isn’t going to kiss him back, but when he’s about to pull back Alex lifts his hands and he cradles Michael’s neck with his fingers, kneading the soft skin in the back as he softly drops kisses on Michael’s lips. When they have to come up for air, Michael allows himself to rest his forehead against Alex’s, breathing heavily, his skin molten against Alex, unable to form a coherent thought.

The idea of a kingdom needed to be ruled, of a marriage needed to be tied, of alliances needed to be held, all vanish as he holds in his hands the only heart that he’s ever deemed vital to his own existence.


	3. kicking down all the fences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: _I Decide_ by Lindsay Lohan

Michael sips from his coffee mug as he scribbles down one of his latest math formulas on one of the messiest pages he keeps his studies on as he waits for Maria and Isobel to show up. He’s summoned them in order to talk to them about what he heard the day before, and as he remembers his surprising stroll through the maze in the garden he can’t help his fingers from lightly touching his lips, a sweet reminder of what he lived through – of what he thought he’d never have, and it is such a good memory that now Michael can cherish it close to his heart.

He should have known his blissful moment would be broken by an interruption in the form of his former bodyguard turned best friend.

Jenna enters his room unannounced, hastily throwing a newspaper onto the table in the middle of the antechamber where Michael stocks all his studies and equations to work on when he feels antsy. The paper lands on top of Michael’s hand as he tries to scribble down a line of code about his latest attempt at inventing a time machine.

“What the hell, Cam?” he screeches, throwing the pen across the room and looking up at her with an exasperated look. “I was trying to work, here!”

“Seems that yesterday you were trying to do something else, according to Elsie Kentworth!” Jenna calls out on him, pointing at the headline in bright big letters on the front page of the _Genovia’s Star_. “What happened, Michael? Did he provoke you? Did you punch him?”

Michael gapes at her before glancing back at the page displayed in front of him, and then he feels as though the air has been sucked out of his lungs. There, in the clarity of the morning light, Michael can see himself facing Alex, too close for comfort, his hands grabbing Alex’s jacket menacingly. From the outside it looks like they’re about to engage in a fight, and no one knows what happened afterwards – whoever took the picture didn’t wait for the outcome, or else the scoop would have been very different.

“No, there wasn’t any fight,” Michael says, shaking his head. “I tripped over his feet, and he helped me up. That’s all. Did you know he has a metal leg?”

“I believe it’s called _prosthetic_ ,” comes Maria’s voice from the doorway. Michael and Jenna whip their heads to see her, already dressed for the morning in jean shorts and a white blouse, her long hair in a slack ponytail. “He lost part of his leg in Iraq.“

“He never said a thing,” Michael complains.

“It’s not something he flaunts,” Maria explains as she steps into the room. “They were ambushed. He tried to save as many of his people as he could. He lost much more than friends back then.”

“That doesn’t explain what you two were up to yesterday at the party,” Jenna insists. “This bitch writes an article saying you were _this close_ to punching him in the face. Given your history with fighting...”

“Given _my_ history?” Michael jumps up on his feet, facing Jenna from his height which she meets almost by the inch. “What do you mean? It’s been a while since I’ve found myself in a fight!”

“Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty, I didn’t think that me being your bodyguard for three and a half years during your college phase would rule me out about knowing you and your fight habits.”

“Wait, you were his bodyguard?” Maria questions, eyebrow arching elegantly as she places a hand on top of Michael’s. “You didn’t tell me that. Are there any more secrets I should know?”

“Speaking of secrets,” he retorts calmly. “I’ve called for you so we could have a small talk about some things regarding our future. Cam, if you’ll excuse us.”

Jenna frowns at him. Michael stands his ground, expressive eyes begging without words for her to leave him alone with his fiancée, so Jenna just sighs and walks out of the room without another word. Michael sits back down and nods at Maria to mimic his motions. She sits down on a chair by the far end of the table, grimacing as Michael just remains silent for a few minutes. The door creaks open and Isobel strolls inside, all confident in her strides as she reaches the middle of the room and stops dead in her tracks, hands on her hips as she glares at Michael.

“Please tell me you’ve called me because you want to do some damage control on the disaster from yesterday,” she begins, heedless to Maria’s presence sat at the same table. “I’ve seen the picture. What were you thinking, Michael?”

“Isobel,” he tries to interrupt her, but to no avail. 

“This isn’t just about you, Michael!” she cries out. “This is way bigger than you, or Max, or me! One more misstep and we could lose it all! But you don’t really care about how your actions will affect your siblings, do you?”

“Siblings?” Maria has to quip in; when Michael looks at her she has a bewildered light in her eyes.

“Maria,” Isobel mutters. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve summoned both of you, Isobel,” Michael tries to explain, but Isobel and Maria are speaking over one another, their voices giving him a headache as bad as the ones he gets when he’s hangover enough to see double in the mornings.

“Since when are you two siblings?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Now, when were you going to tell me you’re Michael’s sister?”

“We’re not _siblings_ siblings, mind you.”

“That doesn’t–”

“Could you please keep quiet for a second?” Michael finally shouts, both hands flat on the surface of the table, above the sheets and the newspaper. He’s so tired of everything right now, of the lies the journalists spew just to keep their jobs, of the throne that he never wanted until he saw it threatened by his own past. He just can’t have his sister and his fiancée brawling over something as petty as them not knowing what each other mean to him.

Michael wishes he could tell Maria that Isobel and Max were involved in the car accident that killed Michael’s mother. He wishes he could manage to convey with words how much it meant to him when they were found together, wandering through the darkness on the road where two cars were hit by a truck out of control. He wishes he could explain to her how he felt when Isobel and Max were adopted, and he was left behind, because they had already begun talking again when all he could do was scream his lungs out at night. He wishes he could describe the sheer happiness he felt when he was sent back when he was 11, back to Roswell, back to them. 

Instead, he exhales a sharp breath and glares at the two women staring agape at him.

“I know your secret,” he starts, feigning a calm he doesn’t feel.

“What are you talking about?” Isobel asks. “I don’t have secrets.”

“Oh, but you two do,” Michael points out. “And before you try to deny it, I heard you yesterday when you thought you were all alone in the maze.”

He can see the moment realization dawns on both of them, even if they don’t even share a glance. Isobel keeps looking at Michael as Maria springs off her chair, balancing herself with her hands on the table. Michael reaches out and grasps Isobel’s right hand and Maria’s left hand. “You’re safe with me,” he states. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Maria begins. “It’s just–”

“Try me.”

“Remember the party at the Spanish Royals’ in Majorca?” 

Michael frowns. He remembers that particular party; Isobel and Maria had engaged in an argument over some petty incident he couldn’t put his finger on, and they had stormed out of the palace and into the darkness. 

“It started there.”

“It’s been what, two years?”

“And a month,” Maria specifies, her eyes softening with fondness as she looks over at Isobel, stretching her free hand to squeeze hers.

“I’m not going to say anything, I am literally no one to do so,” Michael promises. “Just wanted you to know that I’m on your side. I know this is going to be hard on us all,” he continues, squeezing Isobel’s hand. “But I can call off the engagement, Maria. You would be free to marry each other. Same-sex marriage is not legal yet in Genovia, but I’ve been researching and it seems legal enough in Italy–”

“Aren’t you freaked out?” Isobel cuts him.

“Why would I, Isobel?” he sighs. “You’re my sister, for all that it’s worth. I will leave you to marry each other, I can even be best man. I’ll find a way to keep Genovia, I promise,” Michael adds when Isobel looks like she’s about to interrupt him.

“Can’t you see it?” Maria sighs, dropping back onto the chair she’s jumped off. “I can’t marry a _woman_ , not if I want to keep the businesses my father gave me. It’s the law in Italy; where we live, there’s no recognition of same-sex marriage.”

Michael hadn’t been expecting either of them to refuse; he’d been so sure they’d accept his offer to cancel the wedding that he’s been thinking about all the other options that were left for him in order to keep Genovia under his thumb. He’s even spent the night thinking about the speech he would have to give in front of the board. He hasn’t slept at all, believing that his choice to free Maria for Isobel will give him more grief than happiness, but it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make for her, after everything she’s given up for him – she’s even abandoned her family, left back in Roswell while she’s working hard to maintain the calm in a small kingdom in Europe.

Michael definitely hadn’t expected Isobel and Maria stepping back and crouching into two matching chairs, fear and strife painted in their faces. 

“It’s impossible,” Isobel says. “And we need Maria to be able to control her family businesses, if only for our own sake. There have been enough women giving up their birthrights for men just because they’re men.”

“But marrying one man in order to do so isn’t a bit hypocritical?” Michael shakes his head.

“It’s the sacrifice we have to make,” Maria explains. “What are you going to do? Step down and allow anyone else to rule Genovia? Even if that someone is Alex, you’ve worked so much for this all to end up in the hands of Jesse Manes. I could help you rule this kingdom, we could do it all together, my family business and your kingdom.”

“Then, if this is how we’re going to do it,” Michael whispers, looking at their linked hands. They haven’t let go of each other for the whole conversation. They are each other’s rocks; Michael wishes he had someone to rely on so much. “I’ll be your beard. And you can be mine.”

“ _Your_ beard?” Isobel stares at him incredulously. “What do you mean?”

Maria smirks before letting out a full-on laugh. 

“You weren’t about to fight, were you?” 

He shakes his head, feeling himself infected with the same mirth that seems to rack through Maria. 

“You were about to kiss!”

And they both start to laugh, promptly joined by Isobel once she’s caught up with them. Michael dabs at his eyes to dry the happy tears that are streaming down his cheeks as the three of them sag against the table. He has the feeling that, having them on his side, nothing can go wrong in his plans to rule Genovia.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

It starts with simple things, so small that Michael doesn’t notice at first. The floor seems to be more slippery when he’s holding audiences so he slips and falls on his back one Monday, earning himself a disapproving look from Regent Valenti. Apparently he’s awakened much clumsier than any other day on a Thursday while he’s visiting the hospital for some charity Maria’s holding, and he lands face first in front of the photographers after tripping over his feet when suddenly the floor gets rocky under his designer shoes. Elsie Kentworth has a field day speculating about his problem with addiction and his struggles to remain sober enough to pass as a decent human being.

The strangest of it all is how, whenever Elsie Kentworth thinks she has a snoop coverage of Michael's slow fall down to the deep abyss of a ruthless spiral, there are images to counter whatever shit she wants to spew his way. For every slip he makes, every stumbling and fight scare, there is a gentle picture of him going on about his daily activities throughout the palace – Michael playing with the cook's son one day he went down to the kitchen for an early breakfast, Michael helping one of his maids to fold the sheets because she had a sprained wrist but couldn't afford missing her job, Michael deep in thought as he reads a book out in the gardens while the palace slowly wakes up for the day. It's as though he has a guardian angel looking after him, but those snippets of his more calm life can't outweigh the damage his failures do to his own public image and his efforts to become the king Genovia deserves. 

If he were alone in this, he would shoulder it and put on his best smile, but he’s got Maria now, and he can’t do wrong by her, so he tries to focus whenever they’re out together; he swears he hasn’t tasted a drop of alcohol before taking on his duties as Prince – he allows himself a shot of whiskey every now and then, before getting to his bed _alone_ , and isn’t that just a pity? – and he attempts to become better at his job. Every single time, there’s something getting in the way, usually his own inability to remain steady and on his feet, and he fails spectacularly, falling over, slipping, stumbling. Genovia is starting to wonder if he’s the king they deserve.

“I swear I’m not that much of a klutz!” he’s defending himself from Kyle Valenti’s accusations, the Sunday he’s supposed to be reviewing the troops. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not my fault!”

“That’s true,” Regent Valenti comes to his rescue, shaking her head to contradict her son. “You’ve been uncharacteristically clumsy as of lately. Just, please, be careful today. You falling off a horse is really dangerous. You could get hurt.”

“I always try not to make a fool of myself,” Michael sighs. “Guess I’ll try harder?” 

He allows Regent Valenti to straighten his tie and pat his shoulder, her eyes bright and her smile open. He bows his head to her before following her outside.

At the beginning of the rows, Maria, Liz and Rosa talk animatedly with Alex, who’s stealing shy glances his way; Max and Isobel are nearby, looming over them protectively. Behind Alex, Jesse Manes glares at Michael, as though daring him to fuck up _again_ ; Michael knows he’s been invited out of politeness to accompany his son during the dull royal duties they all have to attend as part of the Royal Court. Jenna’s already waiting patiently near the ranks, a few feet separated from the main group, an encouraging smile playing on her lips. Michael witnesses, startled, how Kyle steps close to her and places a hand on her shoulder as he leans in and whispers something into her ear. Jenna laughs, overtly, unabashedly, and that throws Michael off balance for a second. He files it for later, with the rest of the information he’s recently found out and that he has yet to process and accept, as the task at hand right now involves him managing to ride a horse without scrambling back to the ground.

And he manages it for a whole ten seconds.

To his credit, this time it’s completely his fault. Michael isn’t expecting to be thrown aback by a memory of his past – buried so deep within his soul that not even Isobel or Max know about it – while he’s reviewing troops in Genovia on the back of a horse. But there it is, in plain view, under the scorching sun of a Sunday morning, as he rides amount in front of his troops.

He doesn’t register it at first, because someone hammering onto a wooden floorboard isn’t something he’d expect to encounter in the palace stables, but the sound catches his attention and his eyes are glued to the spot where one of the handymen is obviously fixing some boards by the back of the open space. When Michael latches his gaze to the scene, it’s as if the air is punched out of his lungs. He feels dizzy and high, his brain swimming inside his skull, and his left hand begins twitching. He grips the reins tighter, knuckles as white as his face has become, attempting to put on a mask of calmness he isn’t feeling. 

The handyman hammers a nail into the wood, and Michael loses it, fair and square. 

He doesn’t scream, he doesn’t cry – at least not in public – but he dismounts as gracefully as possible and runs for his life, away from the stables, from the ranks, from Regent Valenti and his family. He doesn’t even hear Jenna’s cries after him, or Maria’s concerned questions rising in the aftermath of his flight. His ears are ringing, and all he ever wants is to find a silent place where he can hide – the quiet for the chaos inside his soul.

There’s a barn by the far end of the stables, full of hay and dust. Michael crosses the doorway in a huff, flinging himself down onto one of the hay bales and getting his suit completely trashed. He couldn’t care less. He’s having trouble breathing, verging on a panic attack like none he’s ever had, and his body can’t seem to stop shaking. Memories flood his mind as his eyes water. He hugs his knees close to his chest, dry heaving and shaking, wisps of hay flying around him. Distantly, he hears someone sneezing.

“Guerin,” Alex says as he approaches him, one soothing hand ready to caress his face. At the contact, Michael sighs and gives in, as one particular memory rushes back to him.

> ”What are these from?” Alex asks, one finger tracing the scars in Michael’s back, faded, almost blended with the skin, circular shapes following a pattern, almost like a trail tattoo. They are still in bed, lazing around since neither has anywhere to be this morning.
> 
> “The first place I was sent after the accident,” Michael explains, breathing through his nose slowly. “It was a trailer. There were some meth heads. They used to smoke, and if I bothered them they tried to teach me a lesson.” He shrugs, as though it isn’t important. 
> 
> Alex nods at his back; Michael can feel the heat of his skin branding his own as deft fingers keep tracing patterns on his skin, reaching the inside of his elbow where a thin white line crosses the skin. “And this one?”
> 
> “That,” Michael has to cut himself when Alex leans in around his body and places a soft kiss on the spot. “That one’s from the drunk in Albuquerque who gave me his name, although I never really wanted it. He shoved me one night when I refused to bring him one more beer. I fell onto a knife left upturned. Looked worse than it really was, anyway.”
> 
> Alex shudders. His strong hands maneuver Michael until he’s lying on his back, Alex’s fingertips caressing his bare skin, just the hint of a featherlight touch. Michael marvels in the light that softens Alex’s features, the first sun rays stealing away his breath as they dance around them. He lifts his hand to touch the unruly black locks that threaten to fall onto Alex’s forehead, but the other boy catches Michael’s fingers and holds tight. “What happened to your hand?”
> 
> Michael shakes his head _no_ , leans up to try and kiss those lips, but Alex pushes back, insists. “C’mon, Guerin, I’ve told you about my war wounds, and my soul wounds. Can’t be more horrific than my father beating the gay out of me, now can it?”
> 
> “When I went back to Roswell, I was put in this group home run by a very religious family,” Michael tries to dodge the question, explaining the situation as vaguely as possible, but something inside of him breaks at seeing Alex sitting back, basking in the dim light, paying as much attention as possible as Michael speaks, naked under the sheets. He remains silent for the longest time, trying to make up his mind about sharing that bit of personal information. After all the lies he’s been telling – because how on Earth can he possibly tell Alex who he _really_ is underneath the cowboy swagger that he so well acts on – maybe he owes Alex a moment of truth. “They had kids of their own, but they fostered a bunch of us at a time. They thought I was possessed because of all the scars and the injuries; said self-harm was a sin and a proof that the devil lived inside of me, and practiced an exorcism on me.” Michael shivers at the memory of the scorching cross pressed against his skin, leaving yet another scar, this one _allowed_ because it was intended to heal. “They didn’t even ask where those scars came from. And. They were afraid I would corrupt their older daughter,” Michael finally sighs. “Because I was a threat to her innocence, apparently. Well,” he huffs out a laugh. “They didn’t take it very well when they found me corrupting their _son_. The man just lost it. He took me to their tool shed behind the house and took a hammer to my hand, because that was the offending appendage he saw me corrupting his only son with. Afterwards, they banned me from going to the hospital, so the hand healed on its own, and I lost part of the motion range. No one ever cared, really.”
> 
> He wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He wants to crawl back into himself when Alex doesn’t say a thing, quiet in the silence of the room. Michael begins to withdraw, afraid he’s shared too much even if it’s been Alex who wanted to know. 
> 
> A hand finds its way against Michael’s jaw, forcing him to look up into Alex’s eyes, full of pain and sorrow and love so blinding that Michael would have looked away. But, if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look away from Alex.

“Guerin,” Alex repeats, bringing Michael back to the present. When he looks up, red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks, Alex is staring down at him, one hand still on his dampened skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, kneeling in front of him.

“Lord Alexander,” comes Max’s voice from the entrance of the barn, authoritative and final like a knife slicing the air. Michael whimpers as Alex breaks contact and gets on his feet laboriously. “If I may have a few words?”

It takes a second for Michael to realize that Max doesn’t want to talk to him, but to _Alex_. He doesn’t have any more time to process it since Isobel enters the barn like a flash, followed closely by Maria and Jenna. Liz and Rosa hover over the door, watching from the outside and guarding them. Michael finds himself engulfed in Isobel’s warmth embrace as she pets his hair and whispers that he’ll be okay in his ear. He doesn’t hear the exchange between Max and Alex. He tries to eavesdrop, but Isobel isn’t letting him go.

“I see you have enough cohorts to comfort you after such a show,” Jesse Manes snarls, entering the barn and startling them all. Michael manages to disengage himself from Isobel’s arms, wiping at his face furiously. There’s no way he’s allowing himself to weep in front of the man.

Max frowns at him from the spot where he’s been conspiring with Alex, and takes a step forward. 

“We’ll talk later,” he dismisses them all, waving at the entrance. 

One by one, they all leave except for Michael and Max, who are faced with Jesse Manes as the others walk out, speaking in hushed tones. 

“Widower Lord,” Max greets icily.

“Evans,” Manes acknowledges him with a nod. “I was hoping to have a word with Prince Michael here.”

“I’m afraid I cannot allow that,” Max says. “You may not be aware of what my job entails as the Royal Head of Security. My job is to protect the crown. To make sure no harm comes to the crown. To step in when someone toys with the crown's emotions.”

“I think the entire country understands how well you cater to the crown's chaperone’s emotions,” Manes bites back. 

Michael growls lowly at the mention of Max’s evident crush on Liz, but it’s nothing against Max’s own rage.

“If you hurt my _boy_ , you will answer directly to me, and whatever crimes I commit against you, remember, I have diplomatic immunity in forty-six countries, including Puerto Rico,” he warns, fists tight at his sides.

“You will find that the word _fear_ is not in my vocabulary!” Manes exclaims.

“Perhaps. But it's in your eyes,” Max throws one last punch without physical threat, and watches as Jesse Manes retreats.

“What was that?” Michael asks once they’re left alone. He’s not sure he’s understood what has just happened.

“Michael,” Max says, turning to face him. “I think we’ve been mistaken about Alex.” He takes a short breath in. “You’ve been sabotaged this whole time, to make you look like clumsy and unsuitable. I was suspecting Alex, but it seems it’s been his father all along. But what I don’t understand is–how could he know about the hammer and your hand?”

Michael sees red for a second. 

“Maybe you’re not so far off about Alex,” he bristles. “Because, besides you, Isobel and Jenna, he’s the only one who knows about what happened.”

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

The day Genovia throws the National Day Parade starts with a yawn in most of the bedrooms at the palace, but not in Michael’s. He’s spent the night, just like the nine nights before – ever since the morning he had to review the troops – wide awake, fighting to fall asleep only to be haunted by nightmares and memories tangled together, until he comes up for air, gasping and trembling from the dreams. And whenever he isn’t recovering from a bad trip down memory lane, he’s researching, nose deep in Law books as he tries to find a solution that’s benefitting for both Maria and himself.

Having to tell Max about how Alex is the reason why he disappeared five years ago has earned Michael a very angry head of security – and one disgruntled brother who has decided to keep his distance from Michael given that Max felt that he couldn’t trust Michael anymore. Michael knows he’s to blame in this, because he should have told everyone about who Alex really was from the very beginning, but his decisions have led him to where he is now, two hours away from having to hop into a chariot and completely wrecked from yet another sleepless night.

“At least Max has agreed not to say anything to Regent Valenti or Kyle,” Isobel had tried to comfort Michael, petting his hair as she lay in his bed with him one of the first nights after his downfall. “And Maria won’t tell Liz or Rosa. You’re safe. I know he doesn’t want to be out either.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Michael had replied, tears brimming in his eyes. He wiped them away furiously. “He’s under his father’s thumb. And that bigot is just–”

“I believe Max when he says Alex is not set out to steal the throne from you,” Isobel had whispered against his curls as he’d drifted away to sleep, so soft that he’d almost missed it. “I believe Alex loves you too much to do so.”

He hadn’t wanted to argue with her, but that night his dreams had been filled with empty promises and the yells and screams of a fight long time ago held but never forgotten.

“Michael, are you getting ready?” he hears from outside his closed door, and he groans. Leave it to Isobel to come fetch him at this ungodly hour. When he rolls on his side and checks the clock, he almost stumbles out of the bed. “We’re going to be late if you don’t come out in ten minutes!”

“Almost there!” he calls back, double-checking that the clock reads a blinking _9:13_ , meaning that he has exactly seven minutes to be dressed and ready by the chariots in the Royal Stables if he doesn’t want the wrath of Regent Valenti crashing down on him.

“Please don’t tell me you haven’t slept last night either,” Isobel pleads from the other side of the door, but Michael is paying her no attention, too busy trying to locate the suit his butler most like has told his maids to iron for him. 

He jumps into the shower of the ensuite bathroom for a quick clean up and he emerges from his bedroom cuffing the cufflinks she gave him for his latest birthday. 

“You look like you haven’t slept at all last night,” she accuses him with a finger pointed his way, but they have just a couple of minutes left before Regent Valenti sends the cavalry to bring them to the stables, so she hurries him along the way without another word.

Michael stops abruptly in his almost run as he reaches the entrance of the sandy stables, where the chariots waiting for them to hop in for the parade are nicely sunbathed by the light entering the place. 

Maria and the Ortecho sisters are poised near the last chariot in the place, Isobel leaving his side to stand behind them, guarding them so close that Michael thinks that she could fuse herself with Maria and no one would notice the difference. He notices the four of them are wearing matching dresses in varying shades of green, from emerald to grass, lighting up their eyes in a way that makes him smile. 

He nods towards them before turning to his brother, and his smile freezes on his lips. Next to Max, who’s wearing his most distinctive cowboy growl, stands Alex Manes – perfect dark grey suit, ironed white crisp shirt, no tie, and no crutch. Michael blinks, swallows and blinks again.

“Good morning, Michael,” Regent Valenti greets him, stepping forward and landing a hand on his shoulder. “I was wondering if you’d make it in time today.” 

There’s an unspoken worry in her words; Michael hasn’t been on time for any of his royal duties for the past week and a half because of his insomnia, and he knows it’s been a common discussion between the people closest to him.

“I wouldn’t miss this for my life,” Michael assures her with a tight smile. “Which one’s mine?” he asks, gesturing towards the chariots.

“You’ll ride in the second one,” Regent Valenti says, motioning for him to follow her as she walks to the vehicle. “Lord Alexander will be accompanying you.”

“You have to be kidding me,” Michael blurts, too busy being astounded to take care of his manners. "Shouldn't I be riding with my fiancée and her guests?"

"Lady Maria, Miss Liz and Miss Rosa will be attending the parade from the third chariot," she explains, not an ounce of doubt in her voice. "I will be riding with my son in the first one, and you, the heir of Genovia, will be riding the second one because that's the most important one, visually speaking." 

"I'm not complaining about being in the second chariot," he protests again. When he's met with Regent Valenti's steel gaze, he relents, not without protesting. Loudly. “No way. No fucking way in all _hell_.”

“Michael!” Regent Valenti chides him. “You’ll behave like the Prince you’re supposed to be, and ride in the chariot with our guest. Now,” she continues, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “Where’s my son?”

Kyle enters the stables in a hurry at her words, out of breath and laughing as he stops to catch himself. Jenna enters following suit, equally breathless and giddy. She’s wearing her tightest black jeans and a light pink shirt, Michael notices, underneath a multicolor blazer. He arches an eyebrow her way when she looks for him, questioning without words, but she just shrugs and smiles slyly at him. Michael shakes his head, amused, and turns back to his current problem.

Alex Manes is looking at him, one hand on the chariot’s steps rail and the other on his hip, frowning as he waits for Michael to catch up. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Your Majesty,” he mutters, mockingly. It’s the first time Michael has heard his voice since the debacle of his panic attack in public scenery, and it pains him that Alex sounds so tired and vicious. 

“I was born ready,” he sasses him back, only to be met by Alex’s unimpressed gaze.

“And late,” he jabs back, and Michael actually chuckles at that.

“Regent Valenti always says that the king is never late,” he retaliates, smirk in place. “Everyone else is simply early.” And with that, he joins Alex at the base of the chariot, extending one hand to help the other man find his balance and jump into the vehicle, following shortly after. Max hops in the back as they settle for their seats, sunglasses in place and scowl ready. He doesn’t say anything; Michael knows Max is still angry at him for not having confided in him, but he also thinks that his brother is angry at _himself_ , because the knowledge that Alex is the secret lover who broke Michael’s heart all those years before is crashing with his faith in Alex not wanting to steal the throne. Michael can almost see Max’s confidence wobbling.

Michael has just found his ground and the most comfortable position to salute the people who will most likely be waiting for the parade in the streets when Max slams a hand against the metallic structure and the rider whips the horses forward. Michael falls backwards, almost collapsing against Alex. They end up a heap of mixed limbs and fabrics, as Michael tries to get up and find balance once again without touching too much. He fails, only noticing he isn’t gripping the rails when Alex pries Michael’s hand away from his prosthetic.

"Oof," Michael stumbles back into his seat as Alex lets go of his hands. "I'm sorry," he continues, picking at his shoulders in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. "Are you alright?" Michael refrains from reaching out to Alex, who's now softly massaging his leg where Michael is sure the stump meets metal. 

"I'll survive," Alex huffs, giving his leg one last squeeze before looking up. "How are _you_?"

Michael shakes his head and smiles softly. 

"A bit nervous," he confesses. "It's not my first parade, but I always get like this every single time." 

Alex gives him a reassuring small smile before looking away. Michael feels the kiss of those eyes on his skin, the warmth they bring to his soul, and the fire they ignite somewhere deep down his body. Instead of saying something though, Michael swallows his words and his feelings, putting up his best prince mask and getting ready for his people once the chariot begins wheeling outside the palace and the first groups can be seen cheering for them. He greets and smiles, blushes at the wolf whistles and catcalls, nods whenever an old woman waves at him, and makes faces when he catches a kid beaming up at him from the first row against the security fences dropped all around Pyrus, the capital of the kingdom he wishes he can retain with all the effort he’s putting into keeping it.

He doesn’t realize something’s not going according to plan when the chariots take a turn right when they should have gone left, and the cortege veers towards the less visited part of the town – the poorest, less thriving neighborhoods where Michael once got lost, having to be rescued by the old security team before Joe retired and allowed Max to take over. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, frowning. Michael finds it odd that Max hasn’t complained or ordered the chariots to turn back to the main roads; he whips his head to look at his brother, who’s staring back with the blank face Max always wears when he’s on duty. “Did you know about this change in the itinerary?” he hisses as he turns back to face the people gathering around the fences to greet him. 

“Of course I do,” Max answers in a low voice. “Who do you think has approved of it?”

Michael eases his frown as he takes in his surroundings, the kind of places where he would have been living hadn’t Regent Valenti found him. He sighs audibly, his eyes wandering across the chariot where Alex is looking back at him with an indecipherable light in his dark eyes. Alex reaches out and his hand lands on Michael’s thigh, warm and safe in a touch that’s more intimate than what they’ve allowed themselves in the past weeks. Michael mourns the days when everything was easy and he didn’t have the load of responsibility and missed chances over his shoulders; he wishes he could reach back and take Alex’s hand in his, but he has a duty and Alex isn’t his lover anymore. They’re contestants in a game that only ends when one of them backs out. And Michael’s going to be the last one standing, even if it costs him his soul.

He’s surprised at his own stubbornness in keeping a title he never asked for, never thought he deserved. 

The chariots roll through the streets while the people cheer at them, haggard and grey. Michael attempts to keep his smile on at all times, but it falters as he witnesses the hardships sprouting as they ride, until he snaps when he sees a group of children standing on the staircase of what looks like a building ready to collapse. They are dressed in old clothes and some of them don’t seem to have had a bath in days. Above their heads there’s a rattled sign hanging off its hinges against the building façade, reading _Genovia’s Home For Lost Children_. Michael’s about to see red when he spots a little girl sucking on her thumb, looking at her feet barely covered with shoes that are clearly not her size. He feels his eyes welling up, and without even thinking twice about it he calls out, “Stop the chariot!”, tripping over himself as he stands up before the vehicle comes to a halt, somehow missing falling down onto Alex for mere inches. He hastily jumps off the chariot, ignoring Max’s commands to come back before his words turn into a soft _keep your distance from him_ ; Michael thinks he might be speaking to the journalists who have been following the retinue, but he can’t be sure, and he couldn’t care less.

He saunters to the children and stops right in front of them, arms akimbo.

> They always seem to talk better while naked on the bed, Alex drawing patterns on Michael’s sweaty skin, lines and circles and infinite loops mixing together, making it impossible to know where one ends and the next begins. 
> 
> “Tell me about your childhood,” Alex whispers softly, his nails scratching at Michael’s thigh as they lie in bed on a lazy Saturday afternoon. “I’ve already told you about my shitty upbringing, it’s only fair,” he jokes.
> 
> “Oh, yeah,” Michael sighs. “The youngest of four, mom’s gone and daddy dear doesn’t know how to keep discipline in the house if he isn’t belting someone out. Pretty crappy, yeah.” There’s a lightness in his words, but Michael could swear he’s felt each and every scar and bruise Alex has told him about. He’s going to find that son of a bitch someday and teach him a lesson about loving your children.
> 
> “Then? Am I going to know more about Michael Guerin tonight?”
> 
> Michael smiles. “I guess you could.” He braces himself over the mattress, helping himself up until he’s perched against the headboard, back pressed tight over wood, one arm around Alex’s broad shoulders. “Remember how I told you I consider Max and Isobel my siblings?” Alex hums in agreement. “That’s because we all were survivors of the same crash. My mother died then, when the three of us were seven. A truck got out of control, and it hit our car and theirs. Their biological parents died too. We were too shocked to even speak in the beginning, and we were clinging to each other when they found us. At first the social workers thought we were actually family.”
> 
> Alex’s eyes are closed when Michael looks down at him, already breaking his tale because of the memories it’s bringing upfront in his mind. 
> 
> “Maybe I should let you sleep,” he muses.
> 
> “Please,” Alex says, rubbing a hand over his sleepy eyes. “I want to know about you.”
> 
> “We spent a couple of months in the group home,” Michael explains in a low voice. “We attended some language therapy, to make sure we could speak again, and then, one day, Mr and Mrs Evans came and took Max and Isobel with them.”
> 
> “What do you mean, they _took_ them?” Alex frowns at him. “They came in, chose two kids and didn’t look back as they walked away?” He’s staring at Michael with an unreadable look in his expressive dark eyes. “Michael!” he adds when Michael doesn’t reply, instead looking down at his hands.
> 
> “It doesn’t really matter anymore,” Michael sighs.
> 
> “It matters to me! That’s just cruel, to leave a kid behind!” Alex sounds so infuriated on his behalf that Michael wants to laugh, but he can’t get anything past the sudden lump in his throat. It’s difficult for him to explain that he isn’t resentful for that particular issue – for other things, maybe, but not for being left behind. Max and Isobel were lucky enough to be spared the experience he went through in his childhood, and that’s all that matters to him.
> 
> However, someone who hasn’t gone through the motions of being in the adoption system for long can’t really understand that the Evanses weren’t leaving anyone _behind_ , they were saving two kids out of hundreds, and that’s something astonishing in Michael’s book.
> 
> He shakes his head, but he squeezes Alex closer to him, placing his chin on top of Alex’s head before speaking up again. “The Evanses came into the group home one day to adopt one kid, and they adopted two. They're good people. Maybe I just smelled like trouble.”
> 
> “Where'd you go after that?”
> 
> “The system,” Michael’s words trail off as he remembers those first months apart from Max and Isobel, in an angry world that wouldn’t take an even angrier kid ready to burst. “First, uh, it was a couple of angry meth heads in Albuquerque, and then a violent drunk in, uh, in Santa Fe. I was 11 when I got sent back to Roswell.” Michael sighs, he now has Alex’s full attention but the memories are harder to recount as they grow heavier and darker. “Fundamentalist religious freaks. I’ll tell you about _this_ ,” he says lifting his scarred left hand. “Someday.” He has to chuckle at Alex’s indignant hiss. “After that, I'd take an angry addict any day. But it did bring me back to Max and Isobel, and I was just—I was really relieved. They had an easier time.”
> 
> Alex shuffles beneath Michael as he replaces himself on the mattress so he can drop a kiss right over Michael’s heart. “I’m sorry the system failed you.”
> 
> “I’m just trying to survive it,” Michael says softly, his hand caressing Alex’s arm where it’s landed. “I guess I’m doing alright now.”
> 
> “You’re a student at MIT with almost perfect scores,” Alex informs him. “I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of doing _more_ than _alright_.”
> 
> They slowly drift to sleep, Michael’s fingers grabbing Alex’s arm as he allows himself to slip into the vulnerability of slumber. “I just wish I could’ve saved those kids in the system,” he mutters, eyes drooping heavily. “No one deserves that treatment.” He thinks Alex hasn’t heard him, but the singer holds him closer, bringing his right arm around Michael’s waist.
> 
> “Someday,” he promises. “Someday, we’ll save them all.”

“Hello,” he greets them. There’s a man standing by the side of the staircase, looking everywhere but at Michael. “My name’s Michael.”

“What do we say, kids?” says the man with a high-pitched voice. Michael doesn’t even spare him a glance, instead focused on the children who are straightening up and squaring their shoulders as though they’ve been instructed to do so. 

“Good morning, Prince Michael,” they all chant, robotic and tense and rehearsed. Michael’s heart breaks a little.

There’s a little ruckus at his back, a shuffle of clothes and feet dragging through the mud on the ground; he’s suddenly aware of a presence behind him, and he would recognize the fingers pressing against the back of his jacket even with his eyes closed. “Alex,” he whispers. “What are you doing?”

“Same as you,” Alex whispers back. Michael wants to shout at him that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that he’s just been _called_ by the children in front of the building, hopeless and sad and tired. “Let me be here for you.” Michael just nods absentmindedly, already turning to the children with a small smile.

“What are your names?” he asks with that voice he reserves for the occasions when he knows kindness and softness are needed. His smile widens at the string of _Anna_ and _Frederick_ and _Jonah_ and _Meredith_ that meets his words, and his heart skips a beat when a tiny girl, clearly underfed and shaking, shares her name.

“I’m Mara,” she whispers. The effect is instantaneous in Michael, who stumbles backwards for support against Alex’s hand on the small of his back. The spot feels hot, glowing like an ember under Alex’s touch, helping Michael to center and focus on the child who’s now looking up at him with a shy gaze, thumb inserted in her mouth. “Is this your boyfriend?”

Michael stops for a second, taken aback by her sincerity and innocence. His heart flutters at the mere thought of them being _together_ , but he shoves down his hopes – after all Alex is by his side only because he’s the other heir to the throne and he has to make nice for the cameras. Not because he wants to share this moment of truth with Michael.

“Nice to meet you, Mara,” he waves at her, squatting to get to her height. He chooses to ignore the flashes of the cameras surrounding them as he bites his lip. “And no, he’s not my boyfriend.” He clears his voice and continues, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yes,” she whispers conspiratorially back. Michael can’t help the chuckle that leaves his throat.

“I may need help with the parade,” he informs her, voice louder this time. “I think I can’t do it on my own. Would you all like to help me?”

“How can we help you?” Mara frowns, thumb sticking out of her mouth as she speaks. “Are you in trouble?”

“I’m a bit shy, you know, and I don’t think I can walk along on my own. Would you want to walk with me? I may even need to hold hands, too.”

Mara chuckles at him, but Michael’s feeling pretty satisfied when she nods and reaches out to take his hand, holding her other hand out for one of the boys to take it. Together they make a human chain; unconsciously, Michael reaches out for Alex and intertwines their fingers. When he realizes what he’s doing, he freezes, but Alex just stares at him openly, everything he’s feeling in display for Michael to pick on it – there’s a shimmer of hope and pain laced with what Michael can only wish is _love_ – but it’s gone shortly after and that leaves him wondering if he hasn’t imagined it all. However, Michael smiles down at their linked hands and guides them next to the chariots. He can feel Regent Valenti’s proud nod on his skin as Max orders the cortege to keep going among cheers and congratulations.

Michael allows himself to dream of a time when he can have this all – the happiness that the kids bring to him, the steadiness of Alex next to him – and he takes one step after another, parading his own pride around the city. The whole walk through the route, Alex holds tight to his fingers, blood pumping through their veins in a shared staccato of hope and future. 

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

Michael wakes up the following morning to all the newspapers in Genovia praising his actions during the National Day Parade, huddling with those kids and inviting them to walk next to the chariot with him as he took their hands and set the pace. Michael’s still in bed, lazing around, when a knock startles him. He rubs at his face to scrub the slumber away as the door bursts open and Jenna enters. “Cam,” he greets tiredly as she begins to talk.

“It was an amazing idea, I’m telling you,” she’s saying, arms flying around her. “Changing the route, I didn’t know you’d end up in front of the orphanage. A brilliant idea, I’m telling you, and the only thing I regret is that it wasn’t ours.”

Michael cuts her ongoing tirade with a curt nod. “What do you mean, not _ours_? Whose idea was it? I thought it’d been Max’s.”

“Oh, really?” Jenna laughs. “No offense, but Max wouldn’t think about anything that doesn’t involve Liz Ortecho anymore. And I’m telling you, I’d have thought it could’ve been Kyle’s, because lemme tell you, he’s amazing–”

“Okay, hold it a sec,” Michael’s already awake enough to interrupt her. “You’re going to have to explain about that sudden fixation with Dr McAnnoying.”

“Michael!” she whines at him. Michael knows she’ll deny ever doing so, but it’s there already etched in his memory. “ _That_ is not the point of this.”

“Isn’t it?” he mockingly muses. “Then what is? Whose idea was the brilliant plan to drag me to the orphanage?” He will never admit it’s been the brightest publicity stunt of them all, but for him it’s been about being human, not about being seen as a ruler. Those kids remind him of himself at their age, and something in his chest tightens at the thought that they’ve been abandoned to their fate without anyone really caring. That’s not true anymore – now there’s someone who actually cares.

“It was Alex’s!” she exclaims. “He said it’d be good for you and your image, and Max actually agreed, and Isobel too. Alex also said to keep it a surprise for you, so your reaction would be authentic. Though, now that I come to think about it, he also said to not tell you–”

Michael feels the world has stopped spinning and it’s begun whirlwinding too fast at the same time. There’s once again the tightening in his chest, the knowledge that someone understands him – _knows_ him on such a deep level that he’s given exactly what he needs even if it means that Alex has to take a step back. Realization dawns on him fast as lightning, and he springs into a sitting position with a growl. 

“Where is he?” Michael demands, all semblance of slumber gone under the new light of the news she’s come bearing. “Cam, where’s Alex?”

“Uhm, I don’t really know?” she shrugs. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday, to be honest. But you might want to–”

“Oh, I bet you’ve been _preoccupied_ ,” he jokes, getting out of the bed and jumping into the closest garment he finds – a pair of sweatpants discarded on the floor from one of his night workouts. 

“Hey!” she protests in a huff as he gets hastily dressed. “I wasn’t preoccupied with–”

“We’ll talk later!” he dismisses her as he flees the room, skidding through the halls barefoot until he reaches Alex’s room. He takes a moment to compose himself, taking into account the fact that he’s going to pound on Alex’s door shirtless, shoeless and with the worst case of bedhead he’s ever suffered. He couldn’t care less.

Michael lifts his hand and presses it against the wood, rapping loud enough to wake up a hibernating bear. No reply comes from inside, and Michael tries again, harder this time, only to find the door cracks and gives up under his shoves, opening up to show the sunrays bathing everything in the wide guest room Regent Valenti gave to Alex. Michael steps inside tentatively, “Alex?” he calls out, but no one answers. He’s beginning to grow antsy, a dark feeling pooling around his heart as he fully enters the room and takes in the bed already made and the doors to the ensuite wardrobe hanging open, not a trace of clothes on the hangers.

It sinks down on him, hitting him square and making him double over.

After giving Michael one of the best gifts he could have ever asked for – after sharing with him that emotional moment when Michael realized that him ruling Genovia should be about the people and not about himself – Alex has left.

Michael’s knees hit the floor as he wails at the loss of half his heart.


	4. be yours through all the years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter wasn't posted yesterday, when I had originally planned to post it. It's been a nightmare of a week so far, and yesterday I wasn't in the mood for anything. I'm really sorry about it because I know some of you were waiting on this to brighten your day, which makes me incredibly proud of myself, but it's here now. Thanks for putting up with me.
> 
> Chapter title: _Love Me Tender_ by Elvis Presley (in the movie, it's performed by Norah Jones)

Jenna's hand on his shoulder startles Michael, who almost jumps out of his skin at her touch. He's staring into the immense void that now sits where Alex used to read whatever book on coding he had, on the windowsill with the best views over Pyrus in the whole palace.

"Michael," she says in a low voice, a clear attempt to soothe him. "Regent Valenti wants to see you."

"He's gone," he replies instead of acknowledging her words.

"That's one of the things she wants to talk to you about," Jenna explains. "I'm sorry, I should have told you that first thing."

"You knew he was gone?" Michael hates how his voice cracks on the last word, a soul shattering realization that Alex is no longer close to him.

"I didn't."

Michael has to turn to look at her to actually believe the sincerity in her voice, matching the pity and sorrow in her eyes.

"C'mon, let's go meet with Regent Valenti, okay?” she says, urging him to stand up. “I'm sure she'll have some answers."

"Why is he always leaving?" Michael sighs, allowing Jenna to usher him back to his room so he can get better dressed than the sweatpants he's currently wearing. "He's always walking away, I should be used to it...I was doing fine! Why would he give me such a great gift, why would he open my eyes and make me _see_ , only to _leave_..." Michael knows he's not making any sense but he has to get the despair out of himself before seeing Regent Valenti.

He looks around his bedroom for some clothes, and finds Jenna holding a t-shirt in her hands.

"Thanks," he says, snatching the piece of clothing and tossing it over his head. He doesn't bother changing his pants, and he's about to walk out without any shoes when Jenna gently points out his bare feet, her eyes soft and on the verge of tears herself.

"I just don't understand," he keeps on.

"Yesterday was amazing," she agreed with him, helping him out of the room when he staggers. "But you can't lose sight of the real goal here, Michael," she shakes her head before continuing. "Alex came here to steal your throne and your ability to rule this kingdom. All everyone has done ever since has been to protect you."

"What do you mean?" Michael stops abruptly at her words, forcing Jenna to turn around when he tugs at her hand on placed his arm, guiding him. "Someone made him leave?"

His eyes widen as a thought forms in his mind.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Don't try to understand it before you talk to Regent Valenti, trust me," Jenna says as she pulls him back in motion. "You'll only overthink things, when there's an explanation for everything," Jenna finished, but Michael isn’t really listening to her anymore as he follows her around the palace like a puppy. His mind is trying to find reasons for Alex's absence, but he's coming up blank and there's a vicious voice inside yelling at him that he's not good enough – that he'll never be – that Alex is better off without him.

Regent Valenti is waiting for them outside, in the open conservatory where she likes to have her breakfast. Michael sees both Max and Isobel sitting at the table with her, along with Kyle and Maria. The Ortecho sisters are nowhere to be seen, but there are four unoccupied seats around the table, so maybe that's why Max is sporting his trademarked cowboy scowl. Unsurprisingly, Jenna sits down beside Kyle, snatching his coffee cup in a swift movement that elicits a faint protest. She elbows him playfully and sips from the cup. The whole interaction has Michael's heart yearning for something he's been denied for so long.

"Michael," Regent Valenti greets him, looking up from the newspaper she's reading and patting the seat at her left for him to take it. "How have you slept?"

"Can we cut off the niceties, Michelle?" he almost barks. He needs answers, not petty chitchat. "I want to know what's going on."

"Hold back the grumpy, Michael," Isobel says. "No one's here to attack you."

"Well, it seems you've all been plotting behind my back," he snarls. Michael hasn't planned to lash out to her sister, or anyone for that matter, but they seem so nonchalant about the whole ordeal of Alex leaving, the fact that it is cutting Michael's breath short, that he can't help snapping. "First, you approve a change in the parade's route without bothering to tell me."

"Your surprise had to be genuine," Regent Valenti explains slowly, as though talking to a toddler.

"It was Alex's idea," Michael keeps on. "You allowed a change propositioned by the only other person who could benefit from me making a fool of myself."

"But you didn't!" Maria cries out. "It was an amazing idea, set to show your human side. Alex knows you better than you give him credit for."

"It doesn't matter anymore, does it?" Michael grumbles. "It's been a success, but now he's gone."

"So, this is about Alex leaving,” Regent Valenti points out. “Rather than him being behind the parade's route."

Michael falls silent; he can't deny something that he's made pretty obvious himself.

"When were you going to tell me that you knew Alex?” Regent Valenti continues. “Or that he's the one for whom you almost threw everything down the drain five years ago?"

At Michael's surprised yelp, as he looks alternatively at Max and at Jenna, Regent Valenti chuckles.

"I know everything, Michael,” she says. “Don't you ever think I don't… But, as you see, we all hold secrets."

She produces a folder, held together by an elastic band to keep it from spilling, and she pushes it to him.

"Here you have all your answers."

Michael frowns at the folder, but he reaches out and opens it before he can change his mind. At first he doesn’t understand anything he's reading – names and dates and places all scattered throughout endless pages, scribbled in a handwriting he knows by heart – and then a name catches his attention and he lets out a surprised gasp.

"Jesse Manes," he stutters, his hands trembling as he traces the name with his fingertips. "What is this?"

"For five years, Alex has been gathering data on his father," Max explains, leaving the piece of toast he's halfway eaten on his plate with a sigh. Michael thinks that Max’s irritation has more to do with the absence of one Liz Ortecho than with Michael’s inability to follow up.

"Five years," Michael repeats stupidly. It doesn’t take a genius to add up. "He knew who I was back in Boston."

“Only by the end of it–” Max tries to say, only to be cut by a Michael who’s growing angrier by the second.

“He _knew_ who I was.”

"Yeah," Jenna confirms. "His father has been targeting different Royal Houses all over Europe, digging up shit and blackmailing them somehow to bend to his expectations. That's how his three older sons managed to marry into nobility in the past years."

Michael shakes his head. It's too much in too little time, and he can already feel his head starting to spin.

Kyle pushes a coffee mug his way, and he flops down on a chair next to Maria's, defeated and confused.

"Alex has been working with his father to take Genovia from me," he says halfheartedly. He needs to repeat it over and over to have a chance to actually believe it.

"You know that's not true," Max replies. "That is Alex’s work, he's been a double agent spying and conspiring against his father on his own."

"He came to me the second night of his stay here," Regent Valenti picks up where Max trails off. "Explained that he knew how to stop his father. But Manes has proved to be sneaky. He’s behind all the times you've made a fool of yourself."

"All the–" Michael's eyes widen in realization as he recalls every time his steps have faltered, he has stumbled and given the press ammunition to doubt his abilities to reign. "Oh my God."

"Alex tried to level the ground," Maria continues. "All those candids, all of them were his."

Michael's head is dizzy, his brain swimming wildly inside his skull like it does on the mornings when the hangover is too heavy to be avoided.

He wants to retaliate, he wants to scream. Everything he's been told is smashing against the knowledge that Alex isn’t there anymore.

"But if we have all this," he gestures towards the folder. "If we have it, we show it to the board and I get to keep the throne."

"Sadly, you still have to marry," Regent Valenti points out as Maria stiffens by his side. "The board isn't happy about your actions prior to this summer, Michael. They still think you're unsuitable, and I want to retire and enjoy my grandchildren when this son of mine deems it feasible to settle down."

Kyle has the decency to blush, Jenna snickering by his side as she holds his hand unabashedly over the table.

“I can convince them that I can do better,” Michael protests, trying to fight his way out of a marriage that he senses will only give both Maria and himself more pain than they can bear. “I can convince them that I’ll marry later on, when everything’s settled. There’s a way for us to–”

“I said, you still have to marry,” Regent Valenti repeats. “Unless you can find anyone else around willing to marry you, I’d daresay that you have to stand up to your word, Michael, and marry Maria.”

“But there’s a way if we talk to the–”

“Are you deaf today, Michael?” Regent Valenti snaps, finally losing her cool, eyeing him with a mix of annoyance and sadness. “That was final.”

"So, we're still on with the wedding," Maria grimaces, not an ounce of relief in her voice.

"I'm afraid we are," Regent Valenti shakes her head as she brings her cup of tea to her lips, ending any retaliation and deeming the conversation finished for now.

It takes Michael a grand total of three minutes to give up on any pretension of even attempting at breakfast before he's excusing himself off the table. He flees back inside, although he feels like suffocating, like there will never be enough breathable air for him to gulp in to keep him alive.

Michael reaches his room once again, slumping against the door a second after he closes it. He slides to the ground, back against the wood as he falls down, limbs a tangle of skin and bones flailing about on their own volition. Michael tries to focus on breathing before hyperventilation leads him to a panic attack he won’t be able to control.

He counts to three and inhales shakily, unable at first of keeping it inside, so the air whooshes out of him the same way it came in – painfully, stabbing his throat and his lips as it flies back out, while Michael shivers against the door. Stubbornly, he shakes his head, dizzy and high on fear, and he once again counts up to three, gulping in some air and keeping it inside for two long seconds before sighing it out.

On his sixth attempt he manages to keep the air inside him for at least ten seconds without freaking out. His heart rate slows down enough to make him believe he's not going to have a heart attack, but his hands still shake and he can't help himself up on his feet. Michael rests his head on the door, eyes closed as he centers his attention on his breathing, as he feels his lungs expanding and contracting as the air swishes through his nose down his throat. He is alone in his pain even if he isn’t sure yet about what he’s mourning – whether it is the loss of his freedom to a marriage he will need to fake for the rest of his life or the gaping wound Alex has left in Michael's soul as he’s walked away one too many times. Michael can’t tell apart the anguish in his wrecked heart from the crushing weight of responsibility over his shoulders.

The knock on the door startles him. He turns around without opening the door, waiting for whoever it is to go away. He listens carefully, and soon enough there is a new knock, but he can tell now that it isn’t one adult at his doorstep waiting for him to acknowledge them; there are footsteps and childish laughs, and the sound of a ball bouncing up and down the corridor.

Michael lets out a huffy chuckle as he finally finds the strength to stand up and face the world. It’s become a daily tradition since the beginning of summer, and he’s almost forgotten with everything that’s been going on. He opens his door with a fake smile plastered on his face and meets the three kids playing innocently outside his room.

"Jacques!" he calls out.

The curly-haired little boy turns, beaming at him as he stills before tossing the ball to the girl down the hall.

"And Miriam and Xavier!" he greets, turning his gaze to his right where two blond kids, scarily similar in looks and height, smile broadly at him. "I've been waiting the _whole_ morning for you to show up!"

"Mikey!" Jacques screeches, running up at him. "I thought you were with Regent Valenti out in the gardens!"

"I wouldn't have missed our morning game for anything," he assures the three children who are now headed his way, rushing and pouncing onto him on the spot where he's standing, arms open, waiting for them to reach him.

He scoops them up, one at a time – Miriam first, flowery dress floating around her as he lifts her; Xavier after her, all serious face contorted in laughter as Michael spins him around; Jacques the last, tiny arms wrapping around his neck as Michael holds him tight and close to his chest.

The three of them remind Michael of the kid he once was, when he lost everything and was separated from Max and Isobel. Miriam and Xavier, the twin children of one of Michael’s bodyguards, have long since befriended Jacques, the son of one of the palace seamstresses, a single mom with no father in sight, when the three of them showed up one day, armed with a ball and three similar smiles, pounding at every door until someone opened and wanted to play with them. Michael has taken it upon himself to look out for them, especially for Jacques, to make sure they grow up happy and cared for and loved.

“Who wants to go play in the gardens?” he suggests; the children squeal and start racing each other to the nearest gate, Michael following them closely, fake smile quickly dissolving into a real, wide grin. When he reaches them, they’re already playing tag so he sits on a bench and watches them for a while, soaking in the warm sun finding its way up in the sky.

“You’ll be an amazing father, Michael,” he hears at his left, the rustling of fabric announcing that Isobel is hesitating by the bench, probably trying to decide whether or not she’d be welcome if she sat. He doesn’t tear his eyes from the kids, but he nods in agreement and Isobel flops down by his side. “I mean it.”

“You know, I’m not going to be a father,” he says softly. Jacques waves his little hand at Isobel, who in turn waves back. Michael dares to look at her, and he can see the smile that can’t quite reach her eyes.

“It’s kinda your duty, as _king_ ,” she attempts to joke, but it comes out strained. Michael places a hand on her arm, feeling the goosebumps underneath his fingers.

“I would _never_ do anything to hurt you, Iz,” he reassures her, squeezing her arm. She shrugs, forcing him to continue, “I’ll find a way to make it work, Iz, I promise. Maria and I? It’s not happening, not if I can help it.”

“You can’t throw everything you’ve worked so hard for just out the window because of me!” Isobel tries to reason, voice rising dramatically. “You both need each other.”

“You’re impossible,” Michael chides her like he would a small child, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. “You still don’t understand that I’d do anything for you, Isobel. You’re my sister, and I’ll fight anyone who dares to refute it. I would never, _ever_ , marry someone you’re in love with. Someone who’s in love with you too.”

Michael lets go of her and slides his arm around her shoulder, pulling her in closer.

“And I definitely won’t have children with Maria, I promise. I don’t plan on marrying her.”

“But the throne,” Isobel starts complaining, stopping herself with a huff when Michael snickers. “And Maria! She needs to get married to keep her father’s legacy.”

“That’s the plan,” Michael explains. “I’ve been researching, Iz. Maria doesn’t need to marry a _man_ , she just needs to marry.”

“She can’t marry me,” Isobel charges again, this time meeting his eyes with a hard look in hers. “We’ve talked about it. Should she marry another woman, the marriage has to be legal in that woman’s country to be recognized in Italy. I asked for Genovian nationality when we moved back here five years ago. Same-sex marriage is not legal in Genovia, Michael.”

“Not yet,” he promises.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m planning on placing a motion at the next board meeting, in a couple of days, I don’t care what Michelle has to say about it,” Michael tells her, squeezing her shoulder as she rests her head back against the crook of Michael’s neck. “If we manage to convince the board about legalizing same-sex marriage in Genovia, you both could get married and save Maria’s heritage.”

“But what about you?” Isobel shakes her head, sending thrills through Michael’s skin. “That solves _my_ problem, but yours is bigger. You need to get married as well, Michael.”

“I’ll think about it when the time comes,” he replies. “Alex is out of the picture. I doubt he’s coming back to claim the throne, not with what he’s left behind. Without him, I can try to convince the board that I can do better. I can show them. I don’t care what Michelle says, I know they’ll believe me.”

“He’ll come back for you, you know.” Isobel presses on the only topic Michael’s been hoping to bury with his incessant words. It seems he’s failed, because his sister’s nagging at him, adding salt to a wound that’s still freshly open right in that spot where his soul meets his heart.

“I highly doubt it as well, Isobel,” he says ceremoniously, mainly because it’s what he truly believes. Alex has left him without saying goodbye, and while he tries to ignore the piercing ache inside as he thinks about a life with Alex – just as he did five years before – he knows he’ll survive it. He just has to learn to live without half his heart.

Isobel doesn’t reply, instead cuddling closer to him and sighing, as they both watch the kids laugh and run around the gardens, ball forgotten as they jump up and down getting dust everywhere.

* ~ * ~ * ~

The meeting couldn’t have gone worse even if he had rehearsed it to go awry. Michael stomps out of the meeting room with a scowl, huffing and swearing under his breath, as he leaves Regent Valenti behind apologizing for his temper.

He doesn’t care anymore.

Michael knows his approach on the subject hasn’t been as smooth as he’d have wanted it to be, but the upfront refusal to listen to him from even Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud has shaken him. The board members have just dismissed him as if he’s some child they can talk out of a fit by ignoring his demands. Michael keeps shaking his head when Regent Valenti reaches him a few minutes later, down the corridor that leads to the kitchens.

“Real smooth, Michael,” she says coldly. “The best way to go around managing to get yourself kicked out of a meeting room _and_ to fast forward your wedding a week.”

“How could I have known that they wouldn’t be so keen about my ideas?” he laments, hitting his head against the hard surface of a wall as punishment. He winces when his skull meets the wall with a loud _pang_.

“Could you please stop it?” Regent Valenti scolds him. “You should have known that getting into a board meeting and announcing that you’re not getting married because you have a better idea about how to handle Genovia’s ancestral customs wasn’t the best way to go around this issue.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Michael retaliates, loosening the tie he’s been forced to wear over his white, plain shirt for this meeting. “But it’s a better idea, and you know it.”

“Of course I know that legalizing same-sex marriage would be the solution for Maria and Isobel, Michael,” Regent Valenti lifts both her hands in the air, showing her despair. Michael stares at her agape. “Michael, I knew about them way before you did,” she explains. “I’ve already told you I know everything around the palace, you just choose not to believe me.”

“Then why Maria?” Michael wonders. He buries his hands in the pockets of his black trousers to keep them from twitching. “You knew my sister was dating her!”

“First, Isobel’s not your sister. If she was,” Regent Valenti cuts him before he can fight her on his familial relationship with Isobel and Max, “if she or Max were your siblings, we’d have a bigger problem than getting you married, Michael.”

“I know.”

“Maria was the safest bet,” Regent Valenti explains. “I knew she was dating your sister, but Maria marrying you meant that she got to be near Isobel. I thought that, with time, this arranged situation could benefit all of you."

"Well, it seems it's our only option now," Michael admits, defeated and suddenly so tired of everything. "I'll tell Isobel."

"I will," Regent Valenti offers, an olive branch after all the chiding she’s been doing. "You need to rest and get ready for the wedding."

"How are we going to explain to Isobel and Maria that the wedding's been pushed up to next week's weekend?" Michael wonders. Regent Valenti sighs when he looks up at her with a plea in his eyes.

"Leave Isobel to me. But Maria? That's all your doing," she tells him.

Regent Valenti threads her hand through his curls in an attempt to soothe the pain coursing through him, visible in the tense stance of his back against the wall.

"I will make sure everything is ready for the day," she begins to walk away, dragging her feet through the corridor. Just before reaching the furthest door, she turns around and speaks again, "I'm really sorry, Michael. You deserve to be happy."

"I'll be," he promises. "I just need time to adjust. But it's not your fault," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "You've done your best to help me. I've just been too reckless. This will turn out fine, you'll see."

She stares at him with sadness in her eyes for a long moment before nodding and leaving the antechamber without another word.

Michael doesn’t feel like meeting up with anyone, and since Regent Valenti has already offered to break the news to Isobel – which means that the rest will know eventually – he chooses the greenhouse to hide his disappointment and his defeat. He marches purposefully toward the structure, gleaming under the blazing sun. He discards his jacket as soon as he reaches the last glass door leading to the gardens, and by the time he approaches the greenhouse he's lost his tie as well, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up above his elbows. He frowns at the building, too buzzed up to actually sit down despite his initial plan, so he just turns around on his heels and saunters to the garage by the other side of the gardens, where he keeps a car half dismantled for whenever the need to de-stress strikes.

The engine is in plain view when he sets foot in his own junkyard, just where he left it the day Alex came to the palace to spend the summer. Michael realizes he hasn’t needed to get himself elbow-deep in fixing a vehicle once in the weeks Alex remained with them; he feels tears welling up but he wills them back down.

 _Now's not the time to break down_ , he chides himself.

He places his jacket and his tie on a stool near the workbench, and studies the engine he's been fixing for months now.

Michael has been tweaking the vehicle, sweating as he fixes the carburetor and glares at the filters that are completely wasted, when he hears whistling and childish laughter at his back. He doesn’t know how long he's been working on the car, but when he lifts his hand to wipe the sweat away from his brow with his wrist, leaving a streak of grease in his face, the sun is higher up in the sky than it was when he got out of the board meeting. Michael turns around to locate the source of the whistling, but he only sees Jacques running around with a giant balloon in his little hands, followed by Miriam. He’s glad that the kids feel so at ease in the palace to think of it as their playground, he can't help the smile that finds its way through his face.

"Hey, buddy!" he calls out, making Jacques change his path and start running toward him. Even knowing that he's reeking of sweat and his shirt is more likely to fall apart with all the grease that has swept through the fabric, Michael waits for the child with arms wide open, and embraces Jacques when the kid tackles him. "What are you doing out here today?"

"Hi, Mikey," Jacques greets him. Miriam waits a few steps apart from them, smiling timidly at Michael before running away. "Regent Valenti told us we could come play here. She was meeting with Isobel."

Michael nods, trying to hide his pain. The whistling hasn't stopped, and the tune reminds him of something he used to know, but he can't quite lay a finger on what it is.

Before he can ask the kids who's with them, a silhouette turns the corner of the garage, tight jeans and maroon t-shirt over broad shoulders – an attire so out of place in the palace that Michael would have had a hard time deciphering who it was — if he hadn't known those shoulders, the hands flailing in tune with the whistling, by heart.

"Alex," he barely breathes out.

He gently lets go of Jacques as he hurries to straighten his shirt, realizing belatedly that it’s completely stained in grease and oil.

“What are you doing here?” Michael winces at the harshness with which the words escape his mouth, but once they’re said, they can’t be taken back.

Alex smiles at the child, who’s now staring between them as though he’s attending a very interesting tennis match.

“I forgot some things.”

He isn’t moving, though, and Michael is mesmerized by the way maroon somehow highlights the chocolate shades of Alex’s eyes. Alex seems unfazed by Michael’s staring, instead focusing on Jacques.

“Hey, buddy,” he greets. “I need to talk to Michael here for a second.”

“Mikey,” Jacques turns to him, frown in place. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Michael splutters, dropping the Allen wrench he’s been holding. Alex has the decency to look shaken and taken aback as well, but neither of them says a thing as Jacques keeps eyeing them both before deciding that he’s better off playing with Miriam than waiting for two adults to answer his question. Michael watches as the kid saunters away without as much as a glance back to them.

“So,” he begins, clearing his throat.

At the same time as Alex says, “That was weird.”

“Was it?” Michael retorts, squatting to pick the Allen wrench up from where it’s fallen, underneath the car he’s been fixing. “Your room is exactly opposite this garage.”

“I know,” Alex says softly.

Michael turns around to retaliate in Alex’s face, only to find him closer than he was before. Michael forgets how to breathe for a second, meanwhile Alex hovers over him as Michael tries to get back on his feet.

The Allen wrench drops once again, clattering on contact with the hard concrete floor, echoing in the growing silence that surrounds them. Michael doesn’t even dare to look away from Alex’s eyes, for fear he would disappear and this whole moment would become just another figment of his overeager imagination.

They seem to sway together in the quiet, orbiting around one another like they’re a planet and a sun, although Michael can’t really tell who is which one – the way Alex is looking at him makes him feel like he’s worth the whole universe. His hands ball in fists by his sides, clenching and unclenching as he fights to find his words in the chaotic storm brewing inside of him.

“I’m really busy here, Alex. I don’t know if you know, but my wedding has been pushed up a week, so,” he manages to ask, voice small and quivering as he drinks in Alex’s proximity, the scent that’s primarily _his_ , the way his eyes flicker under the white light he keeps on over their heads inside his working place, the faintest tick in Alex’s jaw as he tries to steer himself. “What was it that you wanted to talk about?”

“I–I’ve forgotten,” Alex stumbles.

Michael would have chuckled, he really _would have_ , if he hadn’t zeroed his whole focus on the way Alex’s lips curve around the vowels, tongue rolling inside his mouth, and Michael remembers – of course he remembers – the way that tongue feels when he’s the one receiving its ministrations.

“What are you doing here, Alex?” Michael isn’t sure how he’s still able to form complete sentences when all his self is screaming at him to stop thinking and begin acting, launching himself over to Alex knowing that, if he falters, Alex will catch him. He doesn’t budge, though, too afraid to make a move and find himself endlessly falling in deep darkness, swirling and swirling until there’s nothing left of him except the dizziness of not knowing where he can set foot on solid ground again.

“I wanted–” Alex trails off as he steps forward, entering Michael’s personal space completely.

They’re so close that Michael can count the freckles on Alex’s tanned skin. A beat skips through them, enough to make Michael crave the touch of the hand that Alex has lifted, as if ready to to touch skin but too shy to actually go through with the motion. They remain like that, dying to touch and dying from the lack of contact, until Alex musters up the courage to speak again, barely above a shaky whisper.

“Could I see you one more time before I go?”

Michael gives in and leans into Alex’s outstretched hand, allowing himself a bit of happiness before the fallout that will inevitably follow – Alex walking away, leaving him, is as reliable a truth as the sun rising up in the east every morning. He sighs, content in the tiny bit of hope he’s found in his little corner of the world, and waits for his reply to build up when his words are shattered like glass.

“Michael!” he hears Max’s voice carrying through the air as footsteps approach.

Alex jumps back, enough to break skin contact but not enough to prevent his warmth from lingering on Michael’s cheek.

“Are you decent?”

“No privacy,” he mutters, stepping further away from Alex and regretting every inch of his retreat. “I’m watched like a hawk.”

“I’ll find a way,” Alex promises before Max enters the garage and stops dead in his tracks when he sees Alex.

“Max,” Michael greets, ready to explain the situation, but Max shakes his head at him, nods towards Alex and bites his lower lip before speaking.

“Cam and Liz were looking for you,” he says, shuffling awkwardly on his feet. “They’ve said something about stag parties and karaoke.”

Michael swallows around the lump in his throat as he sees Alex walking to the patch of path leading back to the palace, head down and shoulders slumped forward, Max barely acknowledges him as he keeps talking about how the girls are organizing a joint party for both Maria and Michael, and how he’s needed back at the palace within the hour. Having lost track of time, Michael hadn’t noticed how late in the day it really was until just now – he hasn’t even had lunch – but he promises he’ll be there to be picked up and blindfolded, just as Liz wants, so their final destination for the party is a secret for him until they arrive.

Alex’s words keep replaying in his mind as he walks side by side with Max, _I’ll find a way_ , and Michael finds himself hoping against hope for a miracle to sweep him off his feet.

* ~ * ~ * ~

The bar is full to the brim with people when Liz and Rosa lead him inside, blindfold firmly in place. Michael can hear whispers and a gathering silence as they make their way to one of the bigger booths. The music begins again when someone – Michael suspects Isobel due to the dent of rings digging into his skin – pushes him onto a seat just as Max unknots the blindfold. Michael blinks a few times to get his eyes adjusted to the dim light before finally taking in his surroundings. They are in one of the local bars of Pyrus, one he's visited several times to get wasted at after being kicked out of the rest of pubs in the city. Tonight, though, the setup seems different; there's a stage by the far end where a couple of microphones rest on their cradles while a technician tweaks something on a soundboard. There’s no paparazzi in sight, so Michael guesses they’ve entered the bar through the back door. From the way the patrons are looking anywhere but their booth, Michael knows nobody’s going to call the journalists tonight.

"You've taken us to karaoke night for our joint stag party?" he asks incredulously.

His gaze roams around the table to see if anyone is going to tell him that this is all a joke, but no one looks ashamed or guilty. In fact, even Max is sporting a huge grin, although Kyle looks more forced to the party than having come willingly. Jenna's already perusing the catalogue much to Michael’s dismay.

"You’re going to love it," Isobel promises him from her spot across the table, pressed as tight against Maria as humanly possible.

Michael has to suppress the shudder that courses through him at the sight of his sister trying to conceal what she feels behind fleeting touches and stolen glances and knowing it's all his fault.

"I'm pretty sure I will," he reassures her, reaching out and squeezing her arm lovingly. "But you know I sound like a banshee when I sing."

"After some shots no one around would care," Rosa jokes as she juggles herself in between Maria and Max with the drinks she’s gone to order along with Liz. "Tonight's your night."

"I can't believe Michelle has allowed this," Michael muses, grabbing one of the shot glasses and placing it in front of himself. "This is such a public set up for me to get drunk."

"Mom thought it would be good for your image to be seen in public with your fiancée, acting like a normal guy."

"Meaning, don't get too plastered," Max urges him.

Liz has sat right beside him and she’s running her fingers over Max’s arm; Michael wants to be jealous of what both his siblings have, but he can't get himself to be more than sad that he already is to give up on true love for the greater good.

"I don't want to haul your sorry ass back to the palace once again," Max continues.

"Don't worry, _mom_ ," he teases Max. "I'll behave."

"You better," Maria jokes as Rosa finishes giving everyone their shots. "I expect you to be all grown up."

"Then you don't know Michael _at all _," Jenna intervenes, one finger rubbing at the condensation on the beer bottle Liz has helped her sister to bring to their table so they don't have to get up for a second round. "I don't think he'll _ever _grow up."____

____"You know I'm still here and I have two functional ears, right?" Michael tries to sound stern but he only manages to get laughter from the rest of the booth. He lifts his shot glass and quirks an eyebrow. "Anyone up for a toast?"_ _ _ _

____"Me!" Isobel quips, hand trembling ever so slightly as she mimics Michael’s motion. "To Maria and Michael!"_ _ _ _

____They all cheer and clink glasses before downing the alcohol in one swift gulp. If Michael grabs his beer and chugs half of it, no one comments on that fact. They all keep their paces, and well into their fourth round Maria convinces Isobel to step up to the stage and sing some pop song together; Rosa's nowhere to be found after her second beer, having fled to smoke some weed so she doesn’t have to withstand the sight of loving couples. Michael wishes he could do the same, seeing as Liz and Max are sharing longing glances and loving caresses whenever they have the chance, and Kyle seems to be so smitten with Jenna that they're next to sing at karaoke. Michael has his fifth beer gripped by the neck, lukewarm after having been sitting on the table for the longest time while he's been watching his surroundings and filing everything away for introspection later. There are happy couples all around, but he can't escape what seems to be a reprise of a love scene out of any movie because he's supposed to be half of one of those couples – his other half is currently leafing through the catalogue with Isobel's hand on the small of her back._ _ _ _

____"You look exactly like a cliché," Jenna startles him as she speaks. He looks at her now that she’s moved from Kyle's side and is waiting for him to move so she can seat by his side. He obliges. "A man mourning the loss of freedom at his stag party."_ _ _ _

____"Yeah, that's me," he says, lifting his beer in a mock toast. He seizes the movement to down the rest of the liquid, grimacing when the alcohol burns his throat. “A walking cliché.”_ _ _ _

____She hums in agreement as she flops down by his side. Michael takes a second to look away from her, but his gaze stumbles upon Max and Liz, who are now forehead against forehead; Michael can tell from Max’s stance that he’s tense, as though in pain, and if Liz’s features are any indication, so is she. He frowns. They seemed to be so good together just a moment before, and now it looks like this wedding and everything that surrounds it have managed to ruin yet another thing for the people he loves. Michael watches as Liz shakes her head and stands up, grabbing Kyle’s arm as she drags her feet through the floor and away from Max. Michael reaches out and squeezes his brother’s arm, catching his attention. “What’s wrong, Max?” he asks, because he can’t stand to see Max pained._ _ _ _

____“It’s nothing,” Max tries to scurry the question by shrugging it off, but Michael knows him too well, and he just squeezes tighter. Jenna feigns sudden interest in the label on her beer bottle, giving them a semblance of intimacy._ _ _ _

____“If it were nothing, you’d be up there right beside Liz,” Michael replies quickly, pointing with his thumb to the stage where the rest of their group is lining up to sing. Rosa has come back and she’s drawing soothing circles on Liz’s back. Michael sighs. “What happened? I thought you were making progress?”_ _ _ _

____“After the wedding,” Max begins, voice breaking halfway through his thoughts, so he clears his throat and starts again. “After your wedding, she’s leaving Genovia. Says she doesn’t know if she’s ever coming back. She plans on becoming this well-known biomedical engineer. She’s got the degree and the master and the grant.” Michael waits patiently as Max trails off, staring longingly at the stage. “Says she doesn’t want to be the kind of girl who changes her plans for a boy.”_ _ _ _

____“Max,” Michael doesn’t know what to say. He’s at a loss for words and for gestures, he doesn’t know how to comfort the adult who’s now shaking his head at him._ _ _ _

____“It’s okay, you know,” Max reassures him. “I know where I stand, now.”_ _ _ _

____“But, Max–”_ _ _ _

____Max simply shrugs, dismissing Michael’s worried eyebrow, and he too gets up to walk away from the booth – probably to get some more booze._ _ _ _

____Suddenly it’s just him and Jenna, and the weight of her glare boring a hole in the nape of his neck is enough for him to turn around in his seat and finally face her again with a sigh. He’s never been good at confrontations, and he doesn’t really know what to expect from her._ _ _ _

____“I always ruin everything,” he gasps out, throat too closed off to actually let nothing more than a whisper through. “Isobel and Maria, and now Max and Liz! Stay away from me, Cam, or else–”_ _ _ _

____“Or else what, Michael?” she sighs. “You’re not jinxing anything. It’s not as if Kyle doesn’t know what he was getting into. Everything will turn out for the best, in the end.”_ _ _ _

____“How can you say that?” Michael’s starting feeling short of breath, but he forces the feeling down in his gut to head on with his tirade. “Max can’t follow Liz because he has to remain here babysitting me! I’m marrying Isobel’s girlfriend–”_ _ _ _

____“–with her blessing–”_ _ _ _

____“-that’s not blessing, that’s imposition!” Michael nearly screeches. “I couldn’t even keep Alex! There has to be something wrong in me, Cam. You shouldn’t be near me, okay? I ruin everything!”_ _ _ _

____Jenna doesn’t let him wallow in his grief. She pulls him in from her grasp on his arm and embraces him in a tight hug, only letting him go when Michael begins to shuffle restlessly against the crook of her neck, where his face has landed by the force of Jenna’s grip._ _ _ _

____"You know, he never wanted to leave you, right?" Jenna has that pitying look in her eyes that Michael hates so much that she takes her distance from him. He’s only seen it in her eyes once before – when he came back after his stunt five years before – and he still feels uneasy under her scanning gaze. “Not then, and surely not now.”_ _ _ _

____“You don’t even know him, Cam,” Michael retaliates, his voice a thread of shaky breaths and unfinished hopes._ _ _ _

____“I know what I’ve seen,” she smiles sadly. She’s now sitting slumped in the booth, back against the fabric of the booth, arms loosely over the table. Michael thinks she might reach out and try to touch him, but as much as he’s craving contact, it’s not _hers_ he’s in need of. The air inside the bar becomes foggy and unbreathable to him; Michael can’t seem to urge his brain to function properly and it’s as if all of a sudden he’s suffocating, unable to do anything but feel as his heart sinks somewhere lower than his lungs which are now clenching inside his chest._ _ _ _

____“I–I need air,” he stammers as he fights to stand up, knocking over the bottles on the table, both empty and half-drunk. He doesn’t care to look over his shoulder to know that Jenna has ignored the disaster in his wake and is now following him closely through the crowd – paying attention to Maria and Liz belting out some rendition of a nineties’ song – and out of the place. Of course she’s not going to let him leave alone._ _ _ _

____Once outside, he collapses against the wall in the dim-lit back alley, shivering from the cold that’s seeping from inside and covering everything in him with a laden layer of frightened thoughts. He still can’t breathe, air barely grazing his nostrils but he can’t seem to get it inside and through his system. He fears he’s going to lose conscience in the middle of the street, where he’s going to undergo a panic attack publicly enough that he can almost see the titles in the morning newspapers, _Prince Michael unleashed and unabashedly wasted on the streets_ , and that’s a thought that sends him through a new spiral of nausea and fear._ _ _ _

____“Breathe,” comes a voice at his left, a little separated from the spot where his head is trying to get fused with the bricks. And now Michael knows he’s losing his mind, because he’s having hallucinations and he’s hearing the voices of people long gone. “C’mon, Guerin, breathe with me.”_ _ _ _

____“Alex,” he manages out, hazily. He can’t bring himself to turn to face the void that’s surely standing where the voice is coming from, so he closes his eyes and waits for a beat for the hallucination to dissolve. His curls are sticking down to his forehead, covered in sweat. He thinks he might throw up, and he doesn’t really know where this new wave of guilt and anxiety is peaking up from._ _ _ _

____“Open your eyes, please,” the voice commands, softly. Accompanying the voice is a gentle caress up and down Michael’s arm, and at the contact he has to oblige, looking straight into Alex’s chocolate eyes._ _ _ _

____“That’s it. Now, focus. Here. Breathe with me.”_ _ _ _

____“Alex, Alex, Alex...” he repeats, like a mantra, like that’s the only word he’ll ever say in his whole life._ _ _ _

____Michael’s just barely conscious of Jenna’s presence looming a few feet from them, one step removed from the door that leads into the bar, neon lights shadowing her face in pinks and yellows._ _ _ _

____“Told you I’d find a way,” Alex says, fingers feathering over Michael’s skin, leaving goosebumps as they fly up and down. “D’you want to get out of here?”_ _ _ _

____Michael’s still in a cloudy state of mind, but he manages to look over at Jenna, who’s sensibly closer now than she was when Michael stepped out of the back door._ _ _ _

____He doesn’t know what to do, torn between _what if_ and _should have_ , until Jenna speaks with a hint of something indecipherable in her voice._ _ _ _

____“Do something impulsive just this once, Michael,” and his soul roars as Alex nods at her words._ _ _ _

____There are no photographers, and even though he knows Max and Isobel would ask for him, at least Jenna would know who he’s left with._ _ _ _

____With wobbly legs, he pushes himself off the wall and right into Alex’s eager arms, surrounding him gracefully as he limps a bit until he finds his step. Jenna waves them goodbye with a glint of sadness in her eyes, and Alex guides him away from the bar and into a black car Michael hasn’t seen before, waiting for them by the corner of the alley._ _ _ _

____Michael doesn’t recall getting into the vehicle or buckling up, or even Alex jumping onto the driver’s seat and igniting the engine, but he later remembers the ride up to Lake Crassids, the soft music playing out of the radio as his soul quiets and his entropy calms. The road is lit up with headlights and moonlight shining dimly above them. He manages to even his breath, and by the time Alex pulls up by the old century-old cypress reaching out over the lake Michael has managed to rein back in his temper. He remains sitting in the passenger’s seat, hands on his lap as Alex saunters out and rummages through the trunk, whistling the same song Michael had heard that very same morning outside his garage before Alex exploded back into his world once again._ _ _ _

____“Are you ready to get out of the car or do you need a little more time?” Alex asks, appearing in the window, startling Michael out of his reverie._ _ _ _

____He frowns at the sight of the other man holding a blanket in his hands, at the strap of a guitar case across Alex’s chest, but he nods slightly and reaches for the handle. He fumbles a bit with it until he manages to open the door, Alex stepping backwards to give him enough space to jump out of the cabin._ _ _ _

____“You had everything planned,” he half accuses, his heart flailing around his ribcage in somersaults worth of any Cirque du Soleil show. Michael allows Alex to guide him down the gravel path until they reach the lakeshore. The moon’s reflection on the calm water shimmers when a few pebbles roll down as they find a spot by the shore to sit down on the blanket that Alex is already laying out on the grass, the guitar case leaning against the trunk._ _ _ _

____“Guilty as charged,” Alex jokes._ _ _ _

____He flops down on the blanket and waits for Michael to follow, which he does, if gingerly. They spend a long time staring at the lake and the sky above them, stars shining bright and high in the sky. There’s a peace in the air that quiets Michael’s inner chaos in a way he’s always associated with Alex. Michael feels no need to speak up, comfortable in the silence that surrounds them, but he’s growing antsy as he sits – he’s never been one to remain still for long times._ _ _ _

____Alex shuffles and grabs the guitar right at the moment Michael begins hitting the ground with the tip of his shoes in a staccato that lacks the rhythm of a well-played melody._ _ _ _

____“Mind if I play something?” he asks almost casually._ _ _ _

____Michael can read the insecurity behind the words feigning a nonchalance that he knows Alex is unable to feel. Michael never met anyone who _felt_ just as intensely as he did until he found Alex. _ _ _ _

____“I’m out of practice, but this moment calls for a song.”_ _ _ _

____“And which one will it be?” Michael whispers, leaning into the wooden instrument as Alex places it on his lap._ _ _ _

____“Whatever you want me to play,” Alex whispers back, and they’re so close that Michael can count the eyelashes and freckles framing the eyes that haunt him in his dreams. Alex doesn’t wait for him to respond; he strums lightly over the strings, and Michael recognizes the melody that he’s playing as the one from back to the day they met, when Michael _knew_ Alex was going to be his person for the rest of eternity._ _ _ _

____“Alex,” he mutters. He closes his eyes, allows himself to get lost in the sounds the guitar is crying out, until all he can feel is the chords and the music, until all his fears and worries dissipate in a whirlwind of notes intertwined with his heartbeats. “You remembered.”_ _ _ _

____“Of course I remember,” Alex whispers back. fingers deftly playing the song. “I remember everything. I never wanted to hurt you.”_ _ _ _

____“Then why did you walk away?” Michael can’t help the way his voice pitches by the end of the question, unsure and small and tired, so tired of being left behind. “Why did you want to leave me when I told you I’d never look away?”_ _ _ _

____Alex stops playing, his hand on the frets stills while his right hand balls into a fist. He turns his gaze down in an attempt to avoid Michael’s. Michael coughs to cover his own nervousness as he doesn’t know what’s going on inside Alex’s head. Not for the first time, he wishes he could read minds. Finally, Alex dares to look up, and all Michael can see is the fear of having gone one too many steps too far, the panic of not being able to find the way back home. He can recognize it because it’s the same feeling he’s been harboring ever since he lost Alex._ _ _ _

____“I shouldn’t have left you after that argument,” Alex begins, eyes darting between Michael and the lake and the guitar. “I could tell you that I didn’t want to leave, but I did.” Michael begins to protest, but Alex cuts him off swiftly. “I knew who you were by the end of it all. I _knew_ , and I was aware of what my father wanted to do with that knowledge once he found out. I needed you to be safe, to remain away from his claws, but I failed.”_ _ _ _

____“You what?” Michael lets out a disbelieving yelp. He isn’t sure he’s understanding a single word that Alex is saying._ _ _ _

____“I didn’t want you to be just another war that I’d lose. D’you know why I enlisted?” Without waiting for Michael to answer, Alex continues, blinking away tears that Michael can already see glistening his cheeks. “I wanted to be the kind of person who won battles, I didn’t want you to become collateral damage.”_ _ _ _

____“But I was,” Michael says, not raising his voice above a whisper. His heart is sinking at Alex’s words, but there’s a hint of hope in the way he’s speaking. Michael always feels hopeful whenever Alex is concerned._ _ _ _

____“But you were,” Alex admits, looking away. After what feels like a lifetime, he looks back right into Michael’s eyes, and sighs. “And it doesn’t matter anymore. Now, whenever I look in the mirror, I don’t see myself most of the time. I see my father. I’m still fighting his battles, not mine.”_ _ _ _

____The words carry the old pain of having been engraved in Michael’s soul for so long, of having been carved in a farewell letter that still grazes his wallet, because Michael would never _ever_ be able to get rid of it, not after almost throwing the last thing he had of Alex out the window in a fit of grief and despair._ _ _ _

____“But you left all your research on your father for Regent Valenti to be able to arrest him.”_ _ _ _

____“Which she hasn’t done, yet,” Alex muses. “And yeah. I was being sincere when I told you I hadn’t come here to steal your throne. Genovia will be much better off with you than it’ll be with me.”_ _ _ _

____Michael blinks slowly, his own tears threatening to spill. He understands and at the same time he feels so lost that only the stars could guide him through the storm he’s wading through. “It would be even better with you by my side,” he finds himself saying, intently staring at Alex, as though wanting to transmit everything he’s feeling through a sole glance._ _ _ _

____He’s been pining after a love lost to the chaos for five years, and even if he’s a few days from marrying someone he doesn’t even know if he’s ever going to love, Michael wants _everything_ with Alex. He isn’t ready to give up his only dream._ _ _ _

____Alex doesn’t say a single thing, instead bowing his head down and he begins to play again, hands trembling as he misses some notes. Michael reaches out, fingers circling around Alex’s wrist, and he forces the other man to look up. He finds a matching fear in Alex’s irises, a familiar wounded gaze that he wants to soothe with love. So he does._ _ _ _

____He lunges forward, cradling Alex’s face within his hands, and he’s searching for Alex’s lips before Alex can protest. The guitar falters, almost falling from Alex’s grip, and they both break from a kiss that’s both feral and sweet so they can save the instrument before it crashes to the ground._ _ _ _

____They both chuckle, and Michael waits impatiently as Alex places the guitar safely behind them so he can kiss Alex once again. They fall together in a heap of tangled limbs and whispered words –____ you’re my family _ _ _ _,____ I never look away _ _ _ _,____ I loved you so much _ _ _ _ _, I_____ never stopped _ _ _ _,____ you are mine and I am yours _ _ _ _– as Michael cherishes every single sound they’re uttering, until they fall asleep in between kisses that become less frantic and more lazy as the moon slowly gives way to the sun.____

____When Michael wakes up, it’s already early morning, the sun peeking out from behind the mountains that are part of the natural border Genovia shares with Andorra. He yawns and rubs his eyes to chase the sleepiness away. He needs a few seconds to remember where he is and _who_ he is with. Michael glances over at the lump underneath the blanket, black mop of hair spiked in every direction as Alex stirs, arms flailing lazily as he wakes up, blinking his own disorientation away. _ _ _ _

____"You’re awake," Alex says, voice still thick with sleep as he looks up at Michael. There's a tenderness in his words that makes Michael want to protect Alex from perils unknown._ _ _ _

____"You stayed," he whispers back, his left hand daring to stretch out and touch Alex's skin over the collar of his shirt._ _ _ _

____Shyly, Michael tosses the blanket apart to discover Alex’s taut body, still clad in jeans and the leather jacket that he knows drives Michael crazy; he allows his crooked fingers to feather over the waistband of those sinful jeans, right where the shirt has ridden up to reveal a patch of freckled skin, and the hand feathers over the fabric until it rests on top of the exact spot where he knows Alex's leg ends in a stump. Soon enough, Michael feels the cold bite of the prosthetic under his fingertips._ _ _ _

____He leans in to drop a peck on Alex’s lips, swift and sweet and soft as the morning sun bathes them in bright light. Alex sits up when Michael draws back, open smile and unguarded eyes as he rests his back against the trunk of the cypress. He lifts an arm, an invitation for Michael to snuggle up against his warm body and place his head on Alex’s chest as that very same arm circles around Michael’s middle and keeps him in place, firmly propped over Alex’s heartbeat._ _ _ _

____Michael scans the lake with new eyes, sleep slowly leaving him as his mangled hand keeps kneading Alex’s leg. There's a boat in the middle of the water, swaying slightly as if off anchor, and Michael wonders when the fisherman has arrived, since neither of them seems to have noticed the boat before. He shrugs the irrational fear that creeps up his spine away, and tries to fall back into the comfort that Alex brings. There’s a rustle on the boat as Michael yawns again in its general direction, and the movement catches his attention. A man dressed in what looks like camo sits awkwardly up, holding a telephoto lens, and the distinct sound of the clickity click of shutter reaches his ears. By the man’s side, a woman with curly red hair produces a video camera and starts filming unabashedly._ _ _ _

____“What the actual fuck–” he exclaims, getting on his feet and hitting Alex square in the chest as he moves. “They’re filming us!” There’s a hint of desperation in his words as he scrambles to gather the few belongings that are scattered over the blanket and underneath the fabric. “They’re filming us,” he repeats, softer this time, his eyes widening as realization dawns on him. “I wasn’t expecting this from you, Alex,” he accuses halfheartedly as he stands on his feet with his shirt rumpled and his jacket dangling from his arms, his wallet and his phone dangerously hanging off his fingertips. “This is just so… low.”_ _ _ _

____“I had nothing – please, you have to believe me, I had nothing to do with this! I swear!” Alex tries to explain, and his raised voice only carries out to the journalists, whose boat is now nearing the shore._ _ _ _

____“You know, it's really a shame they didn't get more x-rated stuff last night,” Michael is looking for a way out that allows him to maintain a thread of dignity, but he can’t find an escape that doesn’t involve him running away after what would look like a row between lovers. “I can’t believe you.”_ _ _ _

____“Please, Guerin, will you listen to me?” Alex is now on his feet as well, swaggering on his prosthetic; Michael realizes he should have taken it off, but he can’t bring himself to feel pity over Alex. Instead, he feels his eyes fill with tears, and that’s the trigger he needs to walk away. He can’t afford himself to show any more weakness – not after everything that’s happened and all the shit he’s thrown over himself in his selfish attempt at refusing to be who he is by birthright._ _ _ _

____“You were the someone that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with,” Michael manages to choke out, watery eyes meeting Alex’s despaired ones._ _ _ _

____“ _Michael_ ,” comes the broken reply, low and quivery, like an arrow shot right through Michael’s heart, but he’s already fleeing, and he doesn’t look back._ _ _ _


	5. time to bump up the shelf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: _Let's Bounce_ by Christy Carlson Romano

Michael wouldn’t recall the way he got back into the palace, but by the time he sprints the last few feet through the gates and inside the building he's missing his left shoe and his jacket is ripped in the spots where it had gotten tangled in the bushes somewhere between the lake and the main road where he found himself lost and crying. He’s walked all the way back, sniffing and brushing his curls away from his forehead as he tried to stop the river of them running down his cheeks, a hot trail that leaves regret and strife in its wake. 

"Michael?" he hears as he slows down in the corridor that leads to his room. 

He isn’t in the mood for small talk with whoever it is that has surprised him sneaking back in the palace in the early hours of the morning. Except the sun is already up when he glances down at his feet, realizing the state he's in. 

"Michael, are you okay?" He recognizes Jenna's voice, worried as she approaches. 

Michael sighs, letting go of the jacket and the wallet, leaving them to thump down on the floor. There's no use in hiding anything anymore, not when the news of what has happened are probably being broadcast for the whole country to watch his downfall. He’s going to have to explain a lot to so many people that he probably won’t see the end of it until he's coming back from his honeymoon. It hits him then — the absurdity of everything crashing down in waves. Just like the night before, he feels like he can't breathe. He stumbles into the nearest wall, not even able to walk into his room for fear he'll collapse. 

When Jenna reaches him, Michael can’t stop the shivering. He feels as though he's been bathing in ice for the longest time. Jenna frowns at him. She tentatively touching his arm and the whole dam Michael has been fighting so hard to keep up around his heart breaks. He feels himself starting to sob and once he begins crying, there's no way to stop it. He just cries and cries, wails and sobs and swears as Jenna stands awkwardly at an arm's length. 

"It was all a lie," he finally cranks out, nails digging into Jenna's forearm. "He’s been lying all along." 

"Oh, Michael," she whispers, pulling him close and placing her hands around his waist. They sway together for a while, but he's not calming down. He barely registers the motions as she pushes him forward into the hall, taking him into his room. Michael lets her manhandle him, tossing and turning and fussing as she manages to sit him down on his bed and bares him of his remaining shoe. 

She brushes her fingertips over his face, and she threads them through his curls, damp from sweat and plastered to his skull. "You should rest." 

"I can't," he mutters, even if Jenna is pushing him backwards and down onto the mattress. He shakes his head, but when he tries to explain further what he’s feeling he finds himself speechless. He opens his mouth and closes it several times, but no sound comes out. In the end, he chooses to shut it and turns to his side on the bed, in the hopes that Jenna takes the hint and leaves. Before she can do so, however, there's the faintest knock on the door and Isobel lets herself in, followed closely by Regent Valenti. 

"Turn the TV on," Regent Valenti barks out, marching over and dropping onto the bed. Jenna hastily jumps out of the way, and she joins Isobel in front of the TV that hangs on the wall opposite Michael’s bed. The screen lights up, and before the images can manifest on the screen, Max and Kyle barge in, breathless and wild-eyed. 

"What's going on?" Max asks at the same time as Kyle coughs, "I've received your message, mom." 

Elsie Kentworth is already talking on the screen, announcing some scoop that she's managed to get her paws on. Michael whines, high-pitched and painful, and tries to cover his face with the sheets, but the fabric is caught under Regent Valenti's weight and he can't pull it up. 

"Turn it off," he begs, and he usually doesn’t ask for anything, but he needs the sounds to go away because when he doesn’t have music or _Alex_ , nothing calms his entropy as well as silence and, at the moment, the mere thought of him makes Michael’s stomach turn, and he has to fight the wave of nausea and bile bubbling up in his throat. "I said, turn it off, please!" 

Elsie introduces the video she's been hinting at, and everyone in the room falls silent at once. Michael can’t help himself and he peeks out from behind the fingers he's lifted up to his eyes. The video doesn’t have sound, which Michael is thankful for, but the images are explicit enough. 

Seen from the outside, Michael witnesses as the last of his defenses crumble down to dust in front of his eyes – he can see himself waking up, Alex following suit, his hands roaming, and the _kiss_. Michael wants the ground to shatter open and swallow him whole – and then the downfall, the fight and what he knows is screaming and hurt, until he can feel his throat raw. Onscreen, he's leaving the frame but the camera keeps filming, and Michael gets to see the follow-up of what happened.

Alex looks crestfallen as he gathers his own things, picks up the guitar and dabs at his eyes as though wiping away tears. Michael’s heart stops beating at the sight of a defeated Alex Manes dragging his feet through the mud near the shore, not even once looking up at the people filming and snapping pictures. Like he's walking in slow motion, Alex turns around and pushes himself up the travel path, falling out of range from the journalists, and the image fades to black. 

"Seems our Prince has gotten himself in a bit of a trouble here. What would Lady Maria say about this issue of her fiancé sleeping with his very handsome competition for the throne? We will be back with more news later today. And remember, keep your eggs sunny-side up! 

Michael can hear Jenna grumble from her spot by the foot of his bed, and through his fingers he can see Kyle approaching her and landing a comforting hand on her shoulder. He sighs. 

"What was that, Michael?" Regent Valenti asks, her voice full of sadness and what Michael has come to recognize as concern. 

"I got played," he confesses. He hates how his voice is hoarse through his words, as though he hasn’t spoken in years; he hates how he feels small and unimportant as he fights not to break down any more than he already has. 

"I think the really important question here, though, is," Regent Valenti continues as if she hasn't heard him, "do we still have a wedding to plan?" 

"Of course we don't," Max quips in an attempt to defend Michael when Michael is willing to take the blow and bounce off it. "Have you seen those images? If anyone's going to marry, it surely isn’t Michael and _Maria_!" 

"Excuse me," Regent Valenti replies, finally getting up from Michael’s bed and freeing the sheets so Michael can pull them up and hide underneath. 

She stood to face Max.

"What do you think it's going to happen, Max? That the Board will magically accept that Michael and Alex are in love with each other and they'll approve of a marriage that's forbidden in Genovia?" 

She sighs as she snatches the remote from Isobel's hands and turns the TV off. 

"They will summon both of us, and they will demand an explanation. What are you going to tell them, Michael?" 

"You think he's in love with me?" he marvels, curly head peeking out from beneath the white sheets where he’s found solace, almost brushing off the rest of her speech. He would gladly give up everything if only Alex loved him. 

"I think he's been in love with you for five years," she sighs. "But it cannot be, not in Genovia, not when you want to be king, why can’t you see that?” she paused and turned to the others. “Why can't _any_ of you see it?" 

"Maybe because _we_ are not old bigots with so many issues that we deal with by forcing people to marry," Jenna snaps. 

Isobel makes an undecipherable sound that has Michael reeling to reach out for his sister and comfort her. 

"Maybe because we'd rather see the people we love and be happy marry out of love rather than marrying who’s _suitable_ ,” she paused. "What does that mean anyway?" 

"Genovia is a centuries-old kingdom with many customs," Regent Valenti says, her voice hard and serious. "You can't go about changing everything because it doesn't suit your standards." 

"Well, that's what the Board is trying to do with Michael," Kyle dares to speak up. "Aren't they, mom?" 

Regent Valenti runs a hand over her face. 

"I'm sorry," she mutters. "You know I support you, you know _I_ think this is all nonsense,” she continues. “But I can't do anything. There's no way out of this. If you don't marry Maria, the Board will have Alex as king." 

"A gay man as king, huh?" Kyle scoffs. "I'm pretty sure the Board knows by now that Alex is not going to marry a woman or have offspring the traditional way. Aren’t they going to just ban him from ruling too?" 

"What do you want me to do, then?" Regent Valenti barks, the lines around her eyes deepening. "It is what it is." 

"We fight harder, mom," Kyle reminds her. "That's what dad and you taught me. What did you think I'd learn out of it? We don't back down in the face of fear," he keeps going without waiting for her to acknowledge his words. "We fight it." 

"And all of a sudden the Board is okay with same-sex marriage because you _fight_?” She arches one eyebrow at him, her mouth closing in a thin line, a grimace on her lips ever so briefly that they almost don’t catch sight of it. She shakes her head in both frustration and stubbornness. “What do you think it's going to happen, kid?"

> "What did you think was going to happen?" Alex’s voice is hard around the edges of the words as he bites down on them, spitting them out like venom. "That I'd stay? That I'd desert? For you?" 
> 
> Michael blinks back at him, speechless. He doesn’t understand how they've ended up entangled in an argument that's looking more and more like a war. One second they were lying on the bed, fingers seeking skin, mouths trailing hot paths, blissful and carefree and happy, and the next Alex is all but fuming and standing up, flailing around and gathering his clothes. 
> 
> "I don't want you to desert." 
> 
> "You want me to stay with you, isn’t that the same?" Alex throws his hands in the air, his sock flying out of his grip as Michael can see how he fights back tears. "I can't leave the military. I need to be able to win my own battles."
> 
> "Not everything's a war, Alex," Michael manages to interject, loud enough for Alex to hear it but soft enough that it’s still a whisper. “I’m just asking for you not to reenlist when your tour is up this time, please. I’m asking you to come back to me and never go back to _them_.”
> 
> “Well, I can’t do that, you know. It’s not that simple.” Alex is already getting dressed, and Michael wishes he could take his words back, could keep the warmth of those chocolate eyes pinned to him. “You don’t understand. I don’t think you’ll ever understand.”
> 
> “I could try to, if you explained it to me,” Michael chokes out, finally mustering enough energy to sit up on the bed and reach out for Alex, his legs feeling like bubblegum. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stand on his feet if he so much as tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Tell me what’s going on.”
> 
> “I have to go back,” Alex says stubbornly. “This has gone on for too long, I shouldn’t have–he’ll know, and then–”
> 
> “Who’ll know what, Alex? Please talk to me.” Michael hates to beg, but if he has to crawl on his knees to get Alex to stay instead of fleeing, he will. “Who’s going to know, who’s so important that you’re so scared?”
> 
> It dawns on him, the sudden realization of everything Alex has ever told him crashing down on his soul like pouring rain and crashing thunder. Michael understands in one head bob from Alex, in the second that it takes for him to bend down to pick up his left shoe from wherever it had ended up the night before. 
> 
> Michael notices a spot on Alex’s hip where the shirt he’s already hastily put on rides up and reveals tanned skin and the beginning of a white, fading scar and Michael understands. 
> 
> Michael understands the fear and uncertainty, the ache to belong to someone, to be part of a _family_ , and then the whole _win battles_ speech that seep deep in Michael’s soul. He shudders at the image of the faceless father who’s always abused Alex. He wants to cry for the little boy trapped between a wall and a fist, wants to soothe the pain of a back cut open by a belt, struck hard enough to draw blood. Michael wants to take Alex in his arms and hold him there forever. He doesn’t, though, because if there’s something he’s learned after years of enduring the same kind of violence against himself is that physical touch is almost never welcomed.
> 
> He’s only ever accepted a caress from Isobel, from Jenna, a pat on the shoulder from Max. Even when he sought partners, he’d never engaged in much more than the occasional touching as foreplay. He’s never _ever_ allowed anyone to touch his soul the way Alex has reached for him.
> 
> The same Alex who’s now searching for his fallen sock. Michael stares silently as Alex stops flailing about and sighs. It’s as painful for Michael to see his scars as it is heartbreaking to witness the tears that threaten to spill. 
> 
> But Alex never cries, he’s always told Michael so. 
> 
> “Not a single man in my family has ever cried in public,” he’d once told Michael sadly, pressed against the crook of Michael’s neck. “It was only me – after I was old enough to understand – hat kept on crying. So my father took the matter into his own hands to beat the tears out of me.” 
> 
> There was a simplicity in the words, the raw truth behind the syllables, that got to Michael.
> 
> “I have to be back by tomorrow evening,” Alex now says impersonally, face blank as he avoids meeting Michael’s eyes. “I’ll be out of your hair come morning.”
> 
> “Alex,” Michael whispers. Alex’s movements have taken him closer to the bed, where Michael could reach out and touch his wrist. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know whether his caresses would be comforting or even accepted. “I don’t want you gone. I want you here.”
> 
> “I can’t stay,” Alex mutters. He doesn’t look Michael in the eye, instead searching for some truth in his own toes. “You won’t be safe with me here. I have to protect you from him.”
> 
> “He wouldn’t even know me,” Michael says softly. “I can protect myself. Now I _can_ ,” and he means it. He’d command a whole army against Alex’s father if he so much as breathed wrong in Alex’s general direction. “I can protect _you_.”
> 
> “No, you can’t.”
> 
> “Please let me try.”
> 
> “Try what?” Alex exclaims, throwing his hands in the air again, but this time the sock is firmly grasped in his fist. “Try overpowering the most powerful man in the whole American Army? He’d destroy you, and I’d have to watch it. Or worse, you’d decide it’s too much work and you’d just walk away and–”
> 
> “I will never walk away, Alex,” Michael promises, and he finally reaches out and takes Alex’s wrist, forcing him to look down at Michael. “I’ll never look away, I promise. Let me prove it to you.” He watches as fat tears finally fall down Alex’s cheeks before he angrily attempts to wipe them away, stomping his feet on the ground and turning his back on Michael.
> 
> Alex storms out of the room, out of the apartment, and he doesn’t come back until the moon is high up in the sky. Michael’s been dozing on and off in between his own tears, and he thinks Alex takes advantage of one of those moments he’s off to gather the rest of his belongings and write down a letter that will haunt Michael for the rest of his life.
> 
> _I could tell you that I don’t want to leave you behind, but I do. I want to go back to war. After what my father did to me, I wanted to be the kind of person who won battles. And for a while I did, and it felt good. But now I don’t see myself when I look in the mirror. I see my father, and I know I’m still fighting his battles, not mine. And I want to fight my own battles._
> 
> When Michael balls the paper in his fist, ready to throw it outside the window in a fit of rage, he knows Alex is long since gone.

Michael’s taken back to his present when Regent Valenti coughs loudly to catch his attention. It still takes him a while to focus and reply.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know, okay? How am I supposed to know?” He pulls the covers up once again, over his head, and wishes he could remain under the delusional thought that if he isn’t seen then the troubles won’t be able to chase him.

“Well, maybe you could try talking to Maria first,” Regent Valenti suggests. “Do it as soon as possible, because the board will probably summon us some time today, given the urgency and gravity of this situation.” 

She shakes her head as she brushes past her son, squeezing his shoulder as she walks to the door. 

“I always believed you’d be the best blow of fresh air for this kingdom, and I still believe you are. I hadn’t planned on this happening, Michael. I’m so sorry.”

“But are you?” Michael accuses, voice barely a whisper. He needs a drink, the higher proof the better, and he doesn’t care if it’s not even noon. It’s five o’clock somewhere in the world, he’s sure of it. 

He blinks as she looks back at him. It’s the first time he’s ever retorted with something that’s not witty or silly or a joke. Regent Valenti looks like he’s thrown her off her balance. 

“You’ve forced me to agree on an arranged marriage because it was the only way out,” he continues “You’ve been pushing me over and over the edge for so long, and now you’re telling me that _who_ I am is not good enough for a bunch of old men who want me to rule the kingdom the old fashioned way. I wish I’d have fled five years ago. Let’s see how well your little kingdom would have done without me.”

Regent Valenti recoils as if he had physically slapped her. Michael sighs deeply, rubbing his right hand over his eyes. His left hand hurts a lot after spending the night surrounded by the clammy humidity of the lake, cramping up and sending jolts of pain through his nervous system. He feels the physical reaction of his own body to the backlash he’s giving; even Jenna is looking at him completely astounded.

“That was uncalled for,” Jenna admonishes him. “I understand where you’re coming from, Michael. But you can’t be a dick about it just because Alex has turned out to be a bastard son of a bitch.”

“I can be whatever I want to be,” he retaliates, childish and stubborn. He feels like crying all over again, he has the urgent need to throw everyone out of his room and cocoon himself under a safety net of sheets and pillows until he can’t breathe anymore. He just wants to be left alone. “Isn’t that true, Michelle? I get to be whoever I want to, except for the bisexual heir who wants to fuck another man.”

“Michael!” Isobel screeches, scandalized. “You shouldn’t talk to Regent Valenti like that!”

“It’s okay, Isobel,” Regent Valenti assures her from her spot, frozen by the door, a hand on the knob and the other limp against her side. “I kind of deserved that, after all. I knew Genovian laws, and I _knew_ your intentions five years ago. I was aware of the nature of your actions and the identity of your lover back then. I never said anything, and I helped you believe you could have whatever you wanted if you became king. And then I let Jesse Manes mess up with all of that, and I still need to right that wrong,” she keeps going, unaware that Michael has stopped listening to her right about halfway into her speech.

“Whatever,” Michael replies slowly, sneer back in place. He is so tired he could scream, but over the years he’s found it more efficient to remain calm and use irony to keep people at an arm’s length. “You were right, I could have whatever I wanted, not _whoever_ I wanted.” 

There’s a pregnant pause while he allows his mind to settle as his eyes scan the room; Max and Kyle are still awkwardly standing next to the TV while Isobel has slumped down against the headboard where she had sat while Elsie Kentworth talked into the void. Jenna was the only one sporting a resemblance of dignity as she stands still and tall, blonde ponytail waving slightly as she taps her feet on the ground. Michael thinks for a second about what he might lose if he decides to refuse his birthright to the throne he would be doing wrong by Maria as well, because she’s relying on him to get a legal hold on her own heritage. He would be deceiving everyone who’s ever trusted him, and he would be proving right the rest of the world who’ve always seen him as the town lowlife he was about to become when Regent Valenti had rescued him. 

He sighs again. 

“I’ll call for Maria and talk to her this same morning. Then we can go meet the Board, Michelle. I’ll accept whatever they want me to accept. After all,” he adds just like an afterthought, small and unsure but yet all trembling gone from his limbs. “That’s what a king should do.”

Regent Valenti nods curtly and leaves the room, not before sharing a glance with her son. Slowly, everyone steps outside, nodding their goodbyes back at him or, in the case of both Jenna and Isobel, squeezing his arm or his shoulder. Isobel even drops a kiss onto his hairline before scurrying away.

“I’ll tell Maria you want to talk to her,” Jenna promises him as she’s the last one to leave the room. “But you might want to think about a shower. I know you’re dead on your feet, and your back is going to be sore from sleeping on the ground, but you don’t want to call off an engagement while smelling like your long lost lover turned traitorous enemy.”

“I still don’t believe it,” Michael says forcefully. “I know what I saw, and I know what it looked like, but it’s so not like Alex. You know it, you’ve gotten to know him while he’s been staying here. You all seemed so enamored of him, so supportive when he gave you all those files.” 

He sighs. 

“I’m not calling off the engagement, Cam. I just have to think my next step carefully, and decide what whatever the fuck that was with Alex means.”

“A good person can still misstep, Michael,” Jenna replies wisely. “I highly doubt that it’s been him, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Whoever’s fault it is, it’s shaken your whole life. I hope you understand that, right now, we all are walking on thin ice because of that video.” 

She raps her knuckles against the wooden door and smiles sadly. “I just want you to be as happy as possible, but the life you’re going to choose, Michael–I don’t know if that can make you happy.” 

With that, she leaves him sitting up on his bed, curls disheveled and eyes wild. He doesn’t want to get into the shower, but he knows the hot spring over his head, soaking his skin, will do him good. He checks the clock and decides on a quick shower before what he knows is going to be the most awkward conversation of his life.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

Michael is buttoning up his flowery shirt when the knock on the door startles him. He's lost track of time in the shower, under the hot spray where he has been able to finally stop thinking. He’s allowed his mind to wander, nails digging into the tiles for a scratch of material so he could _feel_ something.

There's an envelope on the coffee table in front of the TV set, his name written in Isobel's elegant handwriting, that he hasn't dared to open. He knows the bad news it bears, and he needs to brave himself for the conversation he's about to have right away. After, he will worry about the content of the envelope. Right next to it, rests a bulky folder with a note attached to the front, _About the thief, for reading purposes, you’ll know what to do with it, K.V._ , and Michael’s choosing to ignore it as well, for now, although he hastily decides to throw it into a drawer before anyone steps inside the room. 

"Come on in," he calls out, back to the door as it cries when it's forced off its hinges. 

Quick steps announce he's got at least two visitors; the soft _taptaptap_ of sneakers dragging over the floor tells him that the three women have entered his room. 

"Welcome," he greets as he turns, fake smile in place just in case any of the Ortecho sisters try to press their prying fingers onto his fresh wounds. 

Maria eyes him with a concerned look as she walks further into the room, stopping herself right across the coffee table. She rests her hands on the back of one of the chairs that either Max or Kyle had dragged next to the TV during their earlier meeting. Michael doesn’t fool himself; he knows Maria and the Ortecho sisters are well aware of his antics from the night before. He wonders briefly whether there's a single person in Genovia who doesn’t know about their prince running off with the guy who wants the throne for himself. 

"You look awful," Maria says as greeting. The ring on her right thumb scratches against the chair as she tightens her grip on it. 

"You’re too nice," Michael jokes humorlessly. "I feel like shit." 

"That's what happens when oldies like you sleep on the ground," Rosa quips. She’s standing behind Maria, like some sort of bodyguard hovering over her as Liz remains still and quiet at Maria's right. 

"May I remind you that _you_ are older than me?" 

"It's not about the birth date," Rosa explains. "It's about how old you feel at heart." 

Michael frowns, letting her words to sink deep within his soul as he nods ever so slightly. Rosa Ortecho always had a way to deliver life-altering facts with just a wave of her long dark hair and a smirk on her perpetually red lips. He’s heard her say that red is her armor, and he's wondered ever since if he's been hiding behind the derision he wears as armor just the way she hides behind her red. 

"If that's so, I must already be ninety," Michael replies. 

There's a heaviness in the air that wasn't there before the girls entered the room, something that's crushing him and preventing him from breathing. But he can't suffocate, not now, not when he has to piece himself together in order to save everything he's worked so hard to have. 

"I'm sorry." 

"What for?" Maria asks. 

Rosa shakes her head and Liz remains silent – which is eerily upsetting Michael since the youngest of the Ortecho sisters has always shown a penchant for speaking her mind.

"For running away with Alex in the middle of our joint stag party?” Maria continues. “For being caught in film so they can replay it over and over again until it's just a mockery?" Michael winces at the harshness in her voice, which is usually soft and steady. "Or are you sorry that you can't have the happiness you deserve because of this agreement we have?"

"I–I don't really know," Michael shakes his head as he speaks, gripping the hem of his shirt and pricking at an invisible dusty spot. "I'm sorry my actions have made you look like a fool." 

To his surprise, Maria chuckles. 

"I knew what I was getting into, Michael. From the beginning. Getting Alex in the mix has just been an added turn to this rollercoaster." 

Michael snorts. She’s right, and he knows it. But that knowledge doesn’t help him with the task he's set upon himself. 

"I'd understand it if you wanted to call off the engagement," he begins. He resumes his fidgeting, unable to meet her eyes once he's spoken, as though afraid of the rejection he is sure he will face if he dares to steal a glance her way. 

There’s a rustle of clothes and then Maria is next to him, hands grabbing his and taking his fingers away from his shirt before he can fray the fabric apart. She forces him to look up with one hand under his chin, and when he meets her eyes he can only see kindness and a tinge of sadness in them. 

“What do you want, Michael?” she asks softly, although her words cut right through him. 

He finds himself trying to hold back a sob that’s threatening to wreck him. He doesn’t know what he wants – he knows what he wishes he could have, but he’s well aware of the disadvantages of being an heir to a throne that seems set in the Middle Ages when it comes to the rules of ruling. 

“We’ll do whatever you want to be done, because it’s your life as well,” Maria finishes.

“It’s your heritage, too,” Michael mutters, leaning into her touch. “I just wish I wasn’t such a fuck up at everything I do.”

Maria hugs him tight until he can feel her heartbeat underneath his own chest, both pressed together in such an intimate embrace he has never shared with anyone in a non-sexual situation. 

“You know you aren’t,” she soothes him, completely ignoring the gagging sounds Rosa’s making somewhere in the room. “You’ve just got bad luck, and you’ve earned yourself a bad enemy in Jesse Manes. That man is evil.”

“Did you know he beat Alex when he was younger?” Michael stutters, looking up at Maria. 

Silence falls into the room as the three girls exchange a glance, a shadow passing through Maria’s features as she cringes. 

“You knew.” 

The girls at least have the decency to look away as he feels anger and deception bubbling up inside of him. 

“You knew him back at that boarding school, you spent all those years with him,” he pushes away from Maria, free from her embrace. “You never said a thing? Not even to a teacher or a tutor?” 

When they all shake their heads, Michael grits his teeth.

“Did the thought of _telling someone_ ever cross your minds? He was hurting! That beast was beating him into a pulp, he forced him to the military and not even his friends did anything!”

“Michael, we were kids,” Liz intervenes as Michael breathes in right before continuing with the yelling. “And we did _something_! We tried to help him with the Kyle situation!”

“The Kyle situation?” Michael stares stupidly at them, trying to decipher what they mean as they keep looking at each other until Rosa speaks up.

“Valenti,” she explains. “Kyle Valenti was Alex’s best friend growing up, you know. We all went to the same boarding school. Then, he turned out into his worst personal pesadilla. Kyle bullied him, tossed him around against lockers. No one ever did anything, but we did. _We_ helped him with that, but after graduation Alex all but disappeared and the next we knew, he was a fucking airman.”

Michael wants to throw up. He now understands the lost aura around Alex when he first saw him, singing in that stage with his guitar propped on his lap, lyrics about love and fear and hurt spilling out of his lips as he sang about bleeding hearts. 

“Nothing about that matters anymore,” he sighs, defeat and exhaustion present in his voice and his features. “He’s sold me, to that bitch of Elsie Kentworth, so it seems he was working for his father and against _me_ the whole time.”

“You sure of that?” Maria has moved from the spot where he’s shoved her during his outburst, the Ortecho sisters flanking Maria as if to protect her from him, which he knows it’s both understandable, given that he’s forcefully pushed her around, and comical, since they are both shorter than Maria. “Because we know Alex. I know Alex, even after all this time. He would have to be born again to act like that.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” Michael exhales shakily. His hand, which has been tracing patterns in thin air for the past moments, lands on top of the envelope on the table. He closes his eyes. 

“What’s that?” Rosa asks, stepping forward and pointing with her index finger to the paper. The fingertip brushes Michael’s skin, sending a shiver up his spine. “It looks official.”

“One of the maids left it here,” he explains, picking up the piece of paper and gripping it tightly. “It’s more likely a summoning for a Board meeting.”

“Why haven’t you opened it?” Maria questions, frowning at him. “That meeting is the most important thing right now! They’re going to decide about what they saw in that awful video.”

“And still you ask, right?” Liz scolds her friend. “He’s scared. Hell, I’d be scared if I were in your position, Michael."

"Yeah, no kidding," Rosa agrees. "Your whole future can be held inside that. And you still haven't told us what you're planning to do with the engagement." 

"That's because I don't know!" Michael exclaims. "I feel I'd do anything to keep the throne, because it’s what I want to do. I want to rule and I want to make a difference, I want my life to have a purpose. But," he sobers up, lowering his voice, "I don't want to do it at your expense, Maria." 

"What about you open the envelope and we decide on a course of action when we know what's expected from you?" she suggests, waving at Liz to leave the room. 

Liz grabs her older sister by the arm and drags her out of the room while grumbling about emotionally constipated princes and heirs. 

"It's just you and me now, Michael," Maria encourages him. "Open it." 

Michael hesitates for a brief second, and that's all Maria needs to yank the envelope from his hands and tear it open. A simple, white sheet falls onto the coffee table. The black letters glare at them until Michael works up the courage to turn it his way and read it aloud. "Board meeting room, 16:15," he says, parroting the words on the page. "It's dated today." 

Maria squeezes his shoulder. "You have little time to decide, Michael," she tells him as though he hasn’t realized that fact on his own. "What do you want to do?" 

"I've told you, it’s not what I–" 

Maria scoffs at him, playfully shoving his arm. "This _is_ about you, you know," she continues, ignoring his interruption. "I will find a way to fix my shit and keep what my father left me. But this is more than just a fight over whether or not an heir needs to be married to keep the throne, Michael. This is about being free to choose who you want to spend your life with, and it's bigger than me or you."

Michael looks at her, fierce and determined under the light shining through the open windows of his room. He is at a loss for words until a thought assaults him, an idea that has been forgotten for too long while he's been preoccupied wandering around with Alex. 

He signals at her to stay put for a moment as he saunters to the other side of the room, where his desk remains propped against the wall opposite to the window. He opens a drawer, takes out the few handwritten pages joined together by a rubber band, and comes back to her side. 

Maria is frowning at him, bewildered and confused. 

"Michael?" 

"This," he says, shoving the papers into her hands. "This is all you need to keep your heritage, Maria. I have been researching," he continues when she offers him a lifted eyebrow as her only response. "You have to get married, yes, but you don't have to marry _me_. You just have to get a legal marriage somewhere and it will be recognized over in Italy." 

"Meaning?" Michael can tell she isn’t following him, and he has to bite back a witty remark. 

"Meaning you are right, Maria. This is a fight about something bigger than me being forced to marry. Hell, it isn’t even about arranged marriage! And it's a war we both need to win." 

He stops to catch his breath. 

"You can marry whoever you want so long as it's legal and in a country whose laws Italy recognizes. I found this void in that shitty legislation–if you're to marry a woman, it has to be so that woman's country recognizes same-sex marriage, which Genovia doesn't. Spain, and France, and the United Kingdom, and so many other European countries have legalized same-sex marriage, Maria. And your legislation says nothing about diplomatic immunity and coverage, which Isobel has, in all those countries. Just pick your favorite and make a decision for yourself. Be selfish for once in your life."

She blinks back the tears he can see in her eyes before speaking again. 

"Are you calling off our engagement?" 

When he nods, curtly and shakily and completely sure, one of the tears rolls down her cheek. 

"But what about you?" 

"I'll find a way out of this mess," he promises her. "But, as I told you, I won't be doing it at your expense, or at the cost of my sister's happiness." 

"One day you'll have to explain to me about this weird codependence thing you have with both Isobel and Max," she jokes, wiping her tears and hugging him. 

He hugs back, trying to convey in just one right embrace everything he feels.

"Thanks," she whispers against his curls. "Good luck, Michael. You're going to need it." 

He clears his throat. He needs to ask one last thing from her, and he doesn't know how to do so. 

"Maria," he begins. 

It comes out croaky, and he tries again. 

"Would you come to the meeting? As my guest? I'll have to tell them I've called off the engagement," he continues. "And I'd appreciate your support, now that you're going to be family." 

"I have yet to ask. She has yet to say yes." 

"As if Isobel would pass up the chance to plan a wedding," he chuckles. But he's waiting for her answer, fidgeting and worrying – after all these weeks getting to know each other, in between his missteps and her secrets and both their misguided love stories, Michael has come to love Maria in a brotherly way, and he holds her opinions and her support close to his heart. 

"I'll be there," Maria swears. "On one condition." 

"And that'll be?" 

"That you get to be my best man at our wedding." There’s a glint of mischief in her gaze that has Michael laughing, surprised at her boldness. 

"That? Can do," he hugs her as he talks. "Now, go, go! You have someone to talk to, and I have a speech to rehearse!" 

He ushers her out of the room and turns to the drawer where he’s locked the folder before the girls entered. He drags a chair all the way to the window and flops down on it as he grabs a pen and some markers and post-it notes from the desk. He begins reading, taking notes down the margins and placing the colored post-it notes everywhere he deems necessary, until he reaches a page around the last third of the stack of papers, and his eyes almost bulge out of their sockets. 

Michael bites his lower lip before drawing an arrow and filling it in with the black ink of the pen on a yellow post-it note before sticking it to the side of the page. He sighs shakily as he stares through the window, out to the wide vastness that is Genovia in front of his eyes, and he wonders if he’ll have the strength to go through the motions until he makes it out the other side of this battle, hopefully alive.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

It’s not the first time Michael is standing outside the meeting room, facing the richly ornate doors that lead inside. He wishes he could stay still, but he’s nervous and he can’t stop swaying, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he waits for Regent Valenti to join him. Tradition states that, after a summoning like the one he’s received earlier in the day, he has to wait for the doors to open and his name to be called into the room. Michael has never been one to follow traditions, if only for the sake of breaking the rules, but today he’s going to abide by this one. He doesn’t think he can face this ordeal on his own.

“Ready to face the jury?” Regent Valenti shows up at his right, startling him. 

Michael almost drops the folder he’s been clutching tightly in his hands, several colorful post-it notes signaling different parts that he's found interesting during his reading from before. 

Regent Valenti chuckles.

“I’d tell you to relax, but I know you, Michael. You were born nervous.”

“I think I need that bottle of whiskey I left somewhere in my room,” Michael mutters. His fingers crook over the papers, creasing them. He notices, jerking back, releasing the folder enough to smooth the cover. “Maria’s coming with us.”

“I expected that much,” Regent Valenti smiles, Michael can see the softness in her features out of the corner of his eye. “Just as I expected my son to give you that. What are you planning to do with it?”

“What I should have done the moment this nonsense was thrown at me,” Michael says through gritted teeth. 

“You’re _giving up_?” she asks, genuinely taken aback if the way she turns to face him is any telling. “What about all the hard work you’ve done these past years? What about all the learning?”

“My only regret is the position this will leave you in,” Michael admits, looking at her. There’s a soft glint in her eyes, and Michael knows she will support him no matter what. He just wishes there would be a different approach to this problem, but they’re way too deep now. There’s only one way to right the wrongs. “But I’m not backing down, Michelle. I’m going _forward_. And if the Board doesn’t accept that this is already the future they’re so afraid of, it will be their loss as much as mine.”

The rustle at their backs warns Michael that Maria’s getting to them. She isn’t flanked by the Ortecho sisters, who Michael suspects are already in the room as spectators. When he smiles warmly at her, he can see that the smile she gives in return doesn’t reach her eyes. He frowns, but Maria dismisses it with a wave of her hand as she greets Regent Valenti. Michael wants to ask, to dig deeper into the reasons why her eyes aren’t as happy as they should be, but the doors are opened in that moment and Max, as the palace head of security, steps outside. “Regent Valenti. Prince Michael. Lady Maria. The Board is waiting.”

Maria reaches out to him in that last second, and whispers brokenly, “She said no.”

Michael doesn’t have any time left to process the information that leaves him with a heaviness in his soul and a weight burdening his shoulders.

They walk into the room, accompased and slow, falling into step as Michael leads the way in his role of heir, followed by Regent Valenti and Maria, one step behind. He doesn’t look around as he sets the folder on the wooden stand in front of him, with no chair to sit on. Tradition has it that the heir has to be standing during the views. The women take a seat, and Michael looks down at his hands on top of the folder, yearning to grab the hem of his plain white shirt and tear it apart. 

Marquis Chandler starts with the opening ceremony for a meeting like this one. Michael tunes him out as his eyes scan the room – not even Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud looks back at him, and Michael begins to wonder if this is how Prince Ernst felt when he was summoned for his own meeting, the only reunion where the Board had deemed someone unfit to rule the kingdom. He has the fleeting fear that he’s going to be the second one to walk out of that room without a crown. 

His eyes wander, roaming the faceless crowd until he spots Liz and Rosa, sat next to Kyle and Jenna – and he swears to God, if these two are playing footsie during the most important meeting of their whole lives, Michael’s going to kill them – and then he sees Max, standing tall and still against the doors, and Isobel. 

He has to blink and look twice at her, because the first time he thinks he’s having a hallucination. Isobel looks like she’s holding back tears, as though she’s been crying for the longest time, cheeks red and eyes puffy, lower lip trembling slightly as she tries to keep a sob inside. Michael lifts an eyebrow at her, but she isn’t meeting his eyes either, and he finds it difficult to read her features further than the obvious sadness coloring them. He frowns at Max, who gives him the tiniest head movement, shaking _no_ without even moving from his spot. 

His gaze lands on Alex, sitting behind his father, not looking up from his hands on his lap, when Marquis Chandler addresses specifically to him, making Michael jump forward and hit the stand with his knees. “Prince Michael, you have been summoned to this meeting to discuss recent events that have been brought up to our attention.” 

“And the attention of the whole country,” Jesse Manes interrupts, a snarl thrown in Michael’s general direction.

“Widower Lord,” Marquis Chandler admonishes him. “I will not accept any interruption unless prompted. Please keep your ideas to yourself until you’re asked to share them.” The old marquis sighs, pushing his glasses up on his nose, and continues. “I must warn you, Prince Michael, that the behavior shown is not acceptable in this court’s opinion.”

“What’s not acceptable about it?” Michael snaps, unable to stop himself. 

Alex’s head snaps up, hearing Michael’s voice.

He isn’t told to shut up, so he keeps on, emboldened by Alex’s gaze. “The fact that I spent the night out of the palace unguarded, or the fact that it happened with another man? Or maybe the fact that said man was the only person threatening to take the kingdom from me?” 

“Prince Michael, I would like you to think about your words,” Marquis Chandler chastises him. “There’s a veiled accusation there that we don’t condone.”

“It was not veiled, it’s a truth,” Michael presses on. At his back, Regent Valenti has to suppress a snort. Michael smiles before continuing. “What isn’t a veiled accusation either is that Widower Lord Jesse Manes has been sabotaging the European Royalty for years in order to thrive, until he’s managed to set his youngest son in a quest to steal Genovia from the true, righteous Genovians. And I have proof right here about it.” He picks up the folder and waves it in front of him, the post-it notes flickering with the motion, as Jesse Manes pales.

"That is not the issue we're discussing here," Marquis Chandler cuts off him with a wave of his hand. "We are discussing how unfit an heir to Genovia is when he runs off to another _man_ in the middle of the night, foregoing his Royal responsibilities." 

There’s a commotion in the room as every attendant begins to whisper; Michael closes his eyes and balls his hands into fists. This isn't going the way he’d planned, when he'd been reading and taking notes in his messy handwriting. Regent Valenti leans in and touches his shoulder. When Michael turns to look briefly at her, she's got a determined glint in her eyes, jaw set and brows furrowed. 

"Go for it," she says softly, squeezing his shoulder. 

He nods curtly, squaring his shoulders. He knows what he’s about to do will affect too many people in his life, and he'd be lying if he said he isn’t scared. 

"And what, exactly, are those responsibilities?" he plays along, because it’s what the board expects him to do. 

"Marrying a woman who would be a good wife and consort," Marquis Chandler replies almost immediately, gesturing toward Maria. "Then working hard to keep up with the legacy Genovia represents. Not becoming a deviation and showing your sins off for the whole country, and the poor little children, to see." 

And just like that, Michael finds his opening. He wouldn’t have wished for a better way to start, and although he is terrified of the outcome, he knows it needs to be done. He places a hand on the folder and opens it by the end of the stack of papers, right where a bright yellow post-it note points to a particular paragraph. Michael looks up from the page briefly to lock eyes with Max, hoping that they still keep the connection they shared when they were younger – when they could understand each other’s intentions with just one glance – and he’s rewarded with an almost imperceptible nod from Max. 

Michael inhales deeply, and exhales slowly, bracing himself for what’s about to happen. 

“I am sorry to announce that my engagement to Lady Maria has been indefinitely suspended,” he begins. “I firmly believe that, after five years proving myself as a suitable heir to the throne, working to give Genovians the best version of Genovia I could paint, there would be no need for me to prove my value any further, and, most importantly, to prove it through marriage. _Arranged_ marriage. To someone I am not in love with,” he keeps on. “Since, as you all may know by now, I am too attracted to men. To one, in particular.”

“The Pearful Law states–” Marques Chandler tries to interrupt, but Michael isn’t having any of that. He blinks, ever so slowly, and smiles, sweet and full of intention.

“Apparently, the Pearful Law was talked to be repealed around five years ago, during my last year as a student in the States,” he says, following with his fingertip one of the lines on the page he’s using as support for his speech. “It seems, Milord, that you were indeed keen on repealing it, but when the time to vote for it came, you’d conveniently changed your mind.” 

Michael can see as Marquis Chandler trembles. His smile turns into a full-blown smirk. 

“I wonder what would have made you vote against repealing the Pearful Law, a law–if I may say–that’s both reactionary and useless. Maybe,” he keeps on.

He runs his free hand running through his curls as he allows his gaze to fall onto Jesse Manes’ smug expression. Michael wishes for nothing more than to wipe the snarl off that face. 

“Maybe,” he repeats himself. “The offer of a certain Widower Lord to marry his youngest son to your eldest granddaughter had something to do with this whole ordeal–”

“How do you dare–” 

Marquis Chandler sputters and tries to lunge forward, but Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud prevents him from it by placing an arm in his way. 

“Prince Michael, I don’t know where are you–”

“I told you, I have proof that the Widower Lord has been conspiring to sabotage me and to make believe I am not suitable for ruling Genovia, but he’s been doing much more than that.” Michael sighs, breathing in through his nose and feeling the crisp air bite his nostrils as he gears for the battle. “The Widower Lord has been selling favors, using his privilege to ascend in the court, until he’s got everyone wrapped around his finger. It’s all in here,” he taps the folder with his fingertips. “But that’s not all I have come here to say.”

“Then say it, by all means,” Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud encourages him, arm still securely holding Marquis Chandler in place. “This may be your only chance at being heard before the Board decides you’re, indeed, unsuitable for ruling.”

Michael takes a look once again at Max, at Isobel who’s still looking red-eyed and shaky by his side. He allows his gaze to roam the room to find Jenna’s confident gaze looking back at him. When his eyes land on Alex, he is rewarded with a soft smile laced with guilt and what looks so much like repentance that Michael wishes he could look away from, the sheer force of everything Alex is feeling projected towards Michael in waves that threaten to unbalance him. But in those eyes – the depths that usually anchor him to a ground he doesn’t think he belongs to – Michael finds the strength he knew he was lacking. Whatever the outcome, he has to fight for what he thinks it’s right.

 _That’s what a true King would do_ , he thinks he hears his mother’s voice whispering in his ear.

“The Board wanted to have me marry based on an outdated law that was about to be repealed by the time I had to come back home to take on my duties as heir of the throne. I would like to ask the Board members to think of their sons, their daughters, their nephews and nieces. Would you force them to do what you're trying to make me do? Just because I’m not a born Genovian, it doesn’t mean I won’t be a great king. I understand Genovia to be a land that combines the beauty of the past with all the best hope of the future. I–” Michael feels his voice crack, and he clears his throat, looking down at all the proof he’s got about Jesse Manes’ antics and his plans to overtake the throne by abusing his son – and whoever dared to step in his path. “I love this country. Do you think I’d have agreed to marry without love if I didn’t?”

He looks up again and finds Alex looking down at him. He swallows and waits for the reaction. 

It’s Jesse Manes who gets to speak first. 

“Every time,” he starts, standing up. 

Michael doesn’t spare him a glance, instead staying focused on Alex, who’s still looking back at him although there’s a pained rictus on his lips as his father talks. 

“Every time this charming young man opens his mouth,” Jesse Manes continues. “He demonstrates a contempt for the customs of Genovia. The law clearly states anyone who’s not of Genovian birth cannot be king without marrying into Genovian Royalty. Fortunately, there is another heir.”

Michael would have gagged at those words if he hadn’t held the folder with all the information needed to arrest Jesse Manes and Marquis Chandler for treason. However, he is beaten into talking when Alex slowly stands up from his seat. 

“No, there is not,” he states, simply, forcefully, as everyone turns to him. 

Michael’s still staring at him, agape, basking in the light that always seems to follow Alex wherever he goes. 

“I’ve never wanted to be king. I am officially refusing to pursue any further in this quest.” Once he’s got everyone’s attention – as if he could have lost Michael’s anyway – Alex clears his throat and points out at his father and at Marquis Chandler. “I was part of a conspiracy to dethrone the rightful king of Genovia, and I will accept the punishment that abides by the laws in Genovia for treason. But this Board should know that Marquis Chandler has been working with my father all this time to ensure Prince Michael wouldn’t be able to rule.”

Alex takes a break for his words to sink. Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud lets go of Marquis Chandler long enough for the old man to attempt to escape his desk, but Alex’s words carrying through the air freeze him in his spot. 

“I know, because I’ve spent the past five years gathering enough information to be able to stop this nonsense and help the rightful king of Genovia.”

Michael feels he can’t breathe. Alex is still looking him in the eye, he hasn’t looked away for a minute, and it makes Michael’s insides giddy with happiness and dreadful with fear. He has a second to gather his feelings before Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud turns to him, a question ready in his lips. And then, all hell breaks loose.

The Widower Lord ducks faster than everyone else and tries to make a beeline for the doors that are guarded by Max and his gobsmacked guards, and he’s almost reached the knob, bumping Isobel out of his way in his haste, when Michael comes back to his senses and exclaims, “Max! He’s trying to escape!”

The ruckus is too loud for Michael to actually follow all the conversations taking place at the same time. Max orders around four of his guards to arrest both the Widower Lord and Marquis Chandler. Maria covers her mouth with her hand right by his side. Liz and Rosa get out of their seats and exit the room. Jenna pushes Kyle aside and jumps over the small wall separating the visitors’ area from the rest of the room and places herself in front of Michael in a defensive stance, purposefully blocking Michael’s sight and keeping whoever would have wanted to approach the prince away. He ducks behind her, and it’s a long time until when the noise and the chaos have dimmed a little and he dares to look around her shoulder. He watches as the guards escort Jesse Manes and Marquis Chandler out of the room, Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud standing once again on his feet from the spot on the floor where he had dropped. 

Michael spots Isobel next to Max, still trying to get on her feet after Jesse Manes threw her to the floor, and he signals one of the guards next to him to lend him his communication device. 

“Max,” he whispers softly as he reaches around the guard and takes Maria’s hand in his. “I want Isobel to hear this.” 

There’s a rustle of fabric, Michael can see how Max is softly saying something that’s not caught in the microphone, and then Isobel grabs the earplug and nods in his direction, locking her gaze to his.

“Iz,” he says softly, trying to convey in a few words everything he’s feeling, knowing that Maria is listening to him as well. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, trying to save me, but I don’t need saving. I love you, and I want you to be happy.” He can see her nodding faintly, tearing her eyes from him and staring at his left, where he knows Maria is standing in a trembling haze. “I will be okay. You know I will. I always land on my feet. But listen. Just because I didn't get my fairy-tale ending, doesn't mean you shouldn't.”

He lets go of Maria’s hand and feels, more than sees, her running toward the far end door, stumbling into Isobel’s arms with a welp. Michel gives the communication device to the guard and turns to face a very stunned Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud, who’s trying his best not to look aghast. 

“Prince Michael,” he begins, trailing off as though not knowing how to continue.

“It’s fine, Viscount,” Regent Valenti says. Michael hasn’t spared a thought about her in this whole time, and so he’s surprised to hear her steady voice through the chaotic scenario. “I believe the Board has really important things to discuss, regarding the Pearful Law and some other issues regarding same-sex marriage.”

“Sure, Regent Valenti,” he gulps. Michael can see him shaking. “I will make sure we come to an agreement on those terms by the end of this week.”

In that moment, Michael could have kissed the Viscount, but the feeling of happiness bubbling inside of him forces him to scan the room again, now that everyone’s seemingly settling down. His heart sinks as he can’t find the person he’s looking for.

Alex is, once again, nowhere to be found.


	6. just a memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: _A Love That Will Last Forever_ by Renee Olstead
> 
> So this is the end, folks. I've had so much fun writing this, and sharing git with you. It's one of my babies, and I'm so glad you all have enjoyed it as much as I have!

"A week has passed by since the big scandal at the last board meeting, and no one has seen Prince Michael ever since," Elsie Kentworth is saying in the small LED screen the maids keep in their common room. 

Several people come in and out of the room as Michael attempts to get his way into the kitchen through the shared space that the in-house maids keep for their leisure when they're off duty. 

"The rumors are starting to spiral,” she continued. “Given that there is not a single word coming from the palace about Prince Michael’s whereabouts on the day when his future is going to be decided by the board. Will his tendencies be taken into account, or will we be facing yet another long regency from the Valenti family?"

Michael huffs as he manages to step into the kitchen without being seen. Surprisingly, the kitchen is empty; the cooks and maids are focused on other duties given that breakfast time is over and they don’t have to work on lunch for at least three more hours. 

"This woman is a menace," he mutters to himself. He saunters over to the fridge in the hopes to find something he can munch on before holing up in his room until he's summoned for the board's announcement. 

"When you're king you should ban her from informing about Royal issues," he hears a voice at his back, the voice startling him as his hand remains outstretched halfway through picking up the bottle of orange juice. 

Michael withdraws his hand guiltily, like a child caught red-handed by his mother. He turns around to face Isobel sitting on the counter, wrapped in a white and maroon robe that she holds tight against her body. 

"You know, if you ever dare to face the world long enough to be crowned king, that is..." She plays with the bottle of water she has in her hands, the liquid sashaying in its trapped plastic cage, before she gently leaves it on the counter, right next to her hip. 

"Isobel," he greets, nodding his head in her general direction as he closes the fridge. "Didn't think you'd be down here now." 

"It seems the only way to talk to you," she points out. 

Michael doesn’t comment on her attire – Isobel would usually never allow anyone, not even him, see her in less than dress clothing and perfectly done hair – instead frowning at her. 

"Don't give me that look, Michael, it’s been a week and you haven't even allowed anyone in your room." 

"Michelle and I have been busy," he dismisses her concerns with a wave of his hand. 

She gives him a look that pierces right through his bullshit. Isobel's always been the one who was more perceptive and sensitive to others' feelings, so Michael’s not surprised that she can read him like an open book. 

"Plus, I've been working on the engine I had left when this all began." 

"Yeah, sure," Isobel nods at him. She fixes her gaze on her nails, perfectly manicured and painted, as she speaks her next words feigning a nonchalance Michael knows she isn’t feeling. "Nothing to do with a certain former military man giving us the key to take down his father and then vanishing off the face of the Earth..." 

"I have been busy," he repeats. He doesn’t want to relive the endless, sleepless nights he’s spent trying to make out the reasons why Alex has disappeared. He always comes up with the same answer, over and over again: Alex being behind the set up at the lake. 

Michael can’t fathom the reasons why Alex would have done something so outrageously out of character for him, but everytime he thinks that, he once again has to reminds himself that, after all, he doesn’t really know Alex. A fortnight of passionate love that ended with a whimper shouldn’t really count as learning how a person has got to be who they've become. 

Michael can’t shake the horrible feeling pooling in his stomach, that he's missing something, that he's been too quick at judging Alex’s actions. That he's misread Alex’s signals and now Michael can’t reach Alex to actually ask what that last night meant. 

“Michael?” Isobel’s asking him, hand waving in front of him. He comes back to reality, filing his thoughts away for later. “Are you okay?”

“I will be, when this is over,” he confesses. 

He finally picks up the bottle and uncaps it. When Isobel stares at him, one brow elegantly arched, Michael turns around to open one of the cabinets and take a glass out.

“Do you want some?” he asks.

“I have already had breakfast,” she informs him. “Everyone has. I was hoping you came down here at odd hours, so we could talk.”

Michael takes his time putting the bottle back in the fridge, making sure the door is fully closed and checking it twice before once again turning to face her. He knows he’s not going to like what he’s about to be told, and so he decides to attack first. 

“Isobel,” he begins, only to be cut off as she leans in and reaches out until her hand is outstretched, palm up, waiting for him to place his own hand on top of hers. He obliges, and her grip on his fingers is steel against jumbled tendons.

“I’m worried about you, Michael,” she says. “Everyone is. I’ve been talking to Regent Valenti. She’s our only way to get to you, since she’s the only person you’ve allowed near you these past few days...” she sounds hurt as she speaks, wounded by what Michael is sure looks like lack of trust in his family and only he knows is fueled by fear of having made the biggest mistake of his life. 

“I’m just scared that the board will decide to revoke my privileges as heir,” he half-lies, because even if it’s not completely true, it isn’t a lie either. “After the ruckus from last week.”

“You mean, they might put someone else in your place because what, you’re gay?” Isobel chuckles. “That would be a horrible way to fall behind the rest of the European monarchies, you know.”

“I’m not,” he whispers.

“You’re not what?” Isobel looks truly shocked. 

She frowns at him, still not letting go of his hand. 

“Michael?” she prompts him when he doesn’t reply straight away.

“I’m not gay, Isobel. I’m bisexual.”

“Gay, bisexual... What I meant is that you can't choose who you are,” she muses, reaching out to pull him into a hug. "They love you, Michael. You're going to be crowned king, you'll see."

"Right now, Iz, I don't know if that's what I even want," he confesses, hugging her back just as tight. "Besides, shouldn’t you be planning a wedding?" Michael tries to divert her attention, and he almost succeeds, but Isobel shakes her head and cuts him off right before he can keep talking. 

"There’s plenty of time for that," she assures him. "Right now, _you_ are my priority." 

Michael disentangles himself from her to stare at her faire eyes in disbelief. "Are you telling me I'm more important right now than your fiancée?" 

Isobel smiles sadly. "If you truly want to know, we're still figuring out some things. It's not as if I can up and leave you here on your own." 

Michael chuckles. "I'll be hardly _on my own_ in a palace full of people...and, you know," he adds, squeezing her arm, "I have yet to be considered suitable for ruling."

"I don't think you're going to be rejected," Isobel squeezes back. "And even if you are, you can always come with us until you figure everything out." 

"I might take you up on your offer, whatever the outcome," Michael says softly.

Neither of them speaks anymore for the longest time.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

Michael is sitting at his desk, writing in his messy scrawl the last of the letters he’s been crafting for the past week, when the tell tale noise of footsteps followed by a knock on his door announces that he isn’t alone anymore.

“Come on in,” he calls out. “The door’s open.” 

He sets the pen aside and stacks the papers together before putting them inside the first drawer. 

_There’ll be time to finish them later_ , he thinks to himself as he turns slowly.

Regent Valenti enters the room graciously. 

"Michelle," Michael greets, getting to his feet. 

"Are you ready?" Regent Valenti asks him, sparing a glance at his informal attire – a plain white t-shirt and dark jeans. "Do you plan to attend the board meeting wearing that?"

Michael spends a second to take in Valenti’s own looks – a tasteful designer dress and high heels that have her swaying slightly on her feet. His untamed curls seem even wilder in contrast with her perfectly made bun. Michael feels she might say something derisive about his choice of clothing, but Regent Valenti merely stares at him as he works out what he’s about to reply.

"Yeah," he finally says as he shrugs. "This is me, Michelle. If they're going to make a decision about my future, I might as well receive it wearing something I'm comfortable with.” He shrugs.

“Well then,” she smiles softly, motioning for him to follow her. “We should get going.”

Michael follows her through the halls and into the meeting room without the fuss that’s preceded previous encounters. This time, even with the public setting and everyone already inside the room in order to witness his downfall, as he’s already sure he’s going to be thrown out of Genovia, Michael feels more relaxed. He finds his place, where he has to remain standing for the whole meeting, as Regent Valenti takes her seat.

Everything seems so different from the last time he was summoned to this very same room. Michael can’t help comparing his own nonchalance at his future when he was talked to like a child, until he could prove he was a righteous heir who had been played all along. Before that, every time Michael had set foot in the meeting room, he had been oddly unaware of how much of his future was being held in those conversations. Every single meeting he’d attended there had taught him something, even if he hadn’t wanted to learn – at eighteen when the board had named him heir, at twenty-three when he was given more responsibility after his stunt in the States, all the boring meetings in between where he ought to have got a grasp on how to rule a kingdom but he was too busy being hangover from one of the parties he’d attended. The meeting where he understood his future was being threatened had been the last one Michael had entered completely unprepared.

He can’t believe how easily he’s forgotten about the hardships of being alive. For the most part of his life, Michael remained in a limbo, between foster families and group homes, until he found Max and Isobel back when he was eleven. And even after that, Michael had always been somewhat alone – alone in his fear, alone in his memories, alone in his pain. When Regent Valenti showed up at the door of his recently purchased Airstream and tore down his world, Michael had been a child in need of direction. He had been so lost, and he was only found in the sound of the music engraved in his memories. Michael has found himself in dark eyes and bright soul, white and blue and purple and pink exploding behind his eyelashes anytime he got to kiss full lips and pulsing skin. 

Being found and being lost are inherent to Michael’s existence, and yet he doesn’t know how he can wade through this half-life when the only compass he’s ever learned to use is lost to him forever.

He isn’t ready for whatever’s going to happen today, and his eyes keep scanning the room in the hopes he’ll find a pair of chocolate eyes boring holes in his soul. He doesn’t though ‒ he spots Liz and Rosa smiling encouragingly back at him, Maria and Isobel sitting closely together without touching, Jenna and Kyle holding hands over their seats. His family gathered together to support him, no matter the outcome. Max, who’s been standing behind him in his usual guarding stance, takes a step forward and leans in to whisper in Michael’s ear. 

“Today you’re going back to being the heir, you’ll see.”

“That’s what Isobel said,” Michael retaliates in a low voice, leaning back slightly. “It doesn’t make it truer, though.”

“Michael,” Max admonishes him. “Just wait and see. Something’s got to turn out right for you.”

“Yeah, no luck with that,” Michael chuckles sadly. “It seems I ran out of luck somehow.”

Max remains silent for a moment. Michael thinks that their conversation is over, but Max surprises him by leaning in once again, touching his shoulder with a firm but gentle grip, and then he speaks in a whisper. 

“Alex wasn’t the one to set you up at the lake, you know. It was his father.”

“Are you sure?” Michael asks, holding his breath, not caring that the board members have already entered the room and are sitting down. The meeting is about to start, but Michael doesn’t think he can endure it now that he can’t even breathe properly.

“The maids know everything,” Max mutters, squeezing his shoulder. “He loves you, man. Do you think he’d go against his own father if he didn’t?”

Michael doesn’t have a reply to that, he’s too busy replaying the events of the last few weeks ‒ the last few _years_ ‒ and realizing that he’s been shown feelings so deep he shouldn’t have missed them, and yet he’s managed to overlook not only Alex’s feelings, but his own. Not that he would have been able to respond anyway given that Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud started ringing the ceremony bell and speaking up. 

Michael doesn’t hear anything over the loud pounding of his heart in his ears, drowning all noise until all he feels is the heartbeat, pounding in time with his feelings, dread and anxiety and fear seeping in with hope and awe and _love_ , a love so big that he isn’t sure he can hold it in himself any longer. Max is right. Alex loves him.

Alex loves _him_ , and he’s been so blind, so focused on the discordant sounds of a tune they’ve been singing out of key so long that he hasn’t actually realized that love is exactly like this ‒ love is protecting at all costs, just like he’s been doing with his family, trying to keep it together so everyone could be happy, refusing the chances he’s had at being happy at their expense. Love can be leaving, Michael realizes. Love can be painful. But it can also be freeing.

He doesn’t even hear when Viscount Favreau de Mountaloud announces that the board has decided to both legalize same-sex marriage in Genovia under recent turn of events and to organize a crowning ceremony for him as soon as possible. 

“We deem Prince Michael our legal and only heir to the throne,” Michael thinks he hears him say, but he can’t be sure, although everyone clapping and cheering, Max’s fingers back on his shoulder, are somewhat giving him the idea that he might become king soon. There’s a ringing in his ears as the realization dawns on him.

Alex loves him, and in doing so he’s turned his back to everyone who’d ever pushed him away from Michael… even Michael himself.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

The morning Jesse Manes and Marquis Chandler are going to face their trial for betrayal, Michael wakes up with a groan. He was having one of the best dreams he’d had in a long time, not a nightmare revolving around his hand or Alex’s back as he walks away from him ‒ this time, Michael’s been able to keep Alex all to himself, and he hasn’t wanted to be wake up. He fights against the pillow he’s being hit with.

When he finally cracks an eye open, he can see it’s Jenna holding the pillow, a smirk already on her face as she gets ready to hit him once again. 

“Enough!” he cries out, squirming on the bed as he slides up, out of range of her pillow. “I’m up, I’m up!”

Jenna snickers as he sits up on the bed, curls askew and eyes still heavy with sleep. “Aren’t you excited to attend the trial today?” she says, the innocence in her voice laced with something Michael’s still too asleep to register.

“Not really,” he shakes his head. “I can totally stay here in my room and you can update me on anything later,” he suggests, trying to lie back down.

“Oh, no, sir,” Jenna says as she grabs his arm and pulls him upwards. “You’re going to have a shower, and you’re going to dress up nicely and attend the trial like the heir you’re supposed to be, Michael.”

“This heir wants to keep on sleeping,” Michael complains. 

“Been up all night?” Jenna winks at him; she keeps pulling at his arm until she has him completely upright on the bed. Then she proceeds to move his legs around until they’re hanging off the side of the bed. “You’re too old for all-nighters.”

“Been having nightmares once again,” he mumbles. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to dispel the clouds of sleep still hanging in his eyelashes before daring to look up at her. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

“Didn’t sound like you were having a bad dream when I got in,” Jenna teases him. 

Michael simply shakes his head again, she sits down by his side and throws her arm around his shoulders. 

“I thought you were done with them. It’s been a while.”

“I thought nothing would ever trigger them back,” he whispers in a mumbled confession. “Guess I was wrong.”

“It’s actually normal, you know,” Jenna soothes him. “With everything that’s happened, they were bound to come back eventually. You’ll get over them once again, I promise.”

“You know why I got over them last time,” Michael tells her, voice low and almost accusing. He’s remembering the last time he managed to sleep the whole night through with no bad dreams, when he was engulfed by Alex’s warmth in an embrace that lasted until dawn. He bites his lower lip to keep the traitorous tears that threaten to fall down his cheeks at bay. He’s going to be king, he should be able to control his emotions better than this.

“And that’s why you have to go to the trial,” Jenna says firmly. “C’mon, hop in the shower while I try to find something decent in your closet.”

Michael frowns at her, but she’s already sauntering towards his walk-in wardrobe and flipping through the hangers, quickly dismissing shirts and trousers as she ventures further in. 

“And why is that, Cam? I’m pretty sure they’re going to be found guilty and condemned for as long as Genovian laws allow it,” he calls after her.

It takes her a moment, but suddenly her head peeks out of the closet door, her green eyes wide and feigning an innocence Michael knows for sure she left somewhere between her second and third tour with the Army. 

“Oh, didn’t you know?” she drawls slowly. “Witnesses and collaborators are going to be called.”

“And?” Michael still isn’t getting it, and he’s beginning to think that Jenna’s lost her mind overnight. “What does it have to do with me?”

“Michael, for a genius, you know, you’re really quite dumb,” she chastises him. 

Jenna doesn’t answer him, instead walking back into the wardrobe and resurfacing a minute later with a pair of black jeans and a blue shirt. 

“Who helped us prove Jesse Manes and Marquis Chandler were working behind our backs to steal the throne?”

Michael would have kicked himself if he hadn’t been so stunned. 

“Alex,” he breathes out, shakily, uneven, as though the name alone could summon the person he wants to see the most.

“Now we’re talking the same language,” Jenna says, waving the shirt his way. “Go on, shower and dress up. You don’t want to be late for your reunion, now, do you?”

It’s probably the shortest shower of Michael’s life.He doesn’t have to do much convincing for Max to allow him out of the palace, since he knows he’s been a hermit for the better part of the two weeks that have passed since he’s been restored as Genovia’s heir. 

In those two weeks, Michael has fixed the engine he’d been working on, he has played with Jacques, Miriam and Xavier, he has come down to have lunch with Jenna and Kyle, and sometimes he’s even shared dinner with Max and Isobel while she fills up the silence with chit chat about her impending wedding… but he hasn’t really been _there_ , and he realizes how much pain that has inflicted his family when he sees the look of relief in Max’s eyes as he orders his crew around so Michael doesn’t have to drive alone to the courthouse.

“I can’t go with you today,” Max excuses himself. “I’ll see if I can sneak out later, but right now there are some things I need to do here.”

“Tell Liz I said hi,” Michael teases him, bumping his fist on Max’s shoulder and eliciting a groan from him. “Will you come pick me up, at least?”

“You know I will,” Max promises.

As the soon-to-be king, Michael has some priviledges he’s ready to use on his behalf. He struts to the entrance door, nodding his way in without even having to walk through the metal detectors, and he’s guided to a room where a seat is waiting for him in a prominent spot, from which he’ll be able to overview the whole process. The benches and the desks for the trial rest at his right. He sits mutely, suddenly aware that he’s come on his own, followed closely by Agent Sanders, the only man Max trusts more than himself when it comes to Michael. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, what he’s going to _say_ , if he manages to get Alex to talk to him.

Michael knows, objectively, that Alex left him behind once again, but that abandonment feels like his fault. Like Michael wronged Alex by accusing him of setting him up at the lake, and now that he’s been told the truth about what happened ‒ Max has provided him with enough data and folders and shreds of evidence to last him a lifetime ‒ Michael can’t wait to apologize.

He knows he isn’t one to ask for forgiveness. He’s way too stubborn to actually seek out others and plead for them to grant him mercy ‒ and now that tendency has cost him Alex, and the void in Michael’s heart is so wide that he doesn’t think he can breathe ‒ without Alex, it’s like he only has half his soul. Michael needs to right this wrong somehow, to reach out to Alex, and given that Alex has covered his tracks so well no one has been able to track him down, Michael hasn’t been able to lift the weight he feels on his shoulders all the time. This is his chance at forgiveness, he reminds himself.

This is his chance at happiness.

Witnesses, police officers, lawyers and prosecutors trickle into the courtroom before the judge enters. Michael scans the slowly growing crowd, searching for a mop of black hair, dark eyes, a steady stance broken only by the shifting of legs to keep pain from the stump Michael wishes he could have saved Alex from. He is rewarded a few moments later, when Alex is escorted into the room by none other than Max. Michael frowns, but Max gives him an apologetic glance before sitting back behind Alex in one of the benches. Michael recalls briefly that, after having gotten rid of the threat Jesse Manes presented, Regent Valenti allowed Michael’s guard to take on Deputy labors which were much needed in Pyrus.

Michael’s about to say something, call Max’s or Alex’s attention somehow, but the guard announces that Judge Normond is on his way, and Michael has to keep his words to himself, secured in his throat, threatening to choke him.

Michael manages to focus enough on his surroundings to watch as Alex is called first, limping his way to the dais helped by a crutch held on with his right hand. Not for the first time, and surely not for the last, Michael yearns for the old careless days they shared, where they were both as whole as they could be, and they completed each other in ways Michael hasn’t been able to find in anyone else. However, when Alex sits down and begins talking, prompted by Judge Normond and the different prosecutors, Michael tunes the voice out, instead focusing on the eyes that dart everywhere but to him, wishing he could erase the worried lines that mar Alex’s forehead as he reveals the details of what he’s already done to assure Michael would be the one holding the crown to Genovia. He loses track of time as he watches Alex, and before he can register it Judge Normond is dismissing him and Alex stands up, wobbling ever so slightly as he climbs down from the dais and begins walking back to his assigned seat. Alex chooses to walk close to Michael, crutch tapping the floor with a steady staccato as he takes one step and then another, slowly, painfully walkin back to his seat. Michael blinks at him, but Alex isn’t making eye contact and Michael feels lost in the sea of his own feelings, runaway with guilt and riddled up with want.

Alex trips over his prosthetic, the crutch giving in, and he stumbles forward. Michael reacts on instinct, on the subconscious moves he’s learned whenever Alex is involved, and he lunges forward, catching him before he falls to the ground and embarrasses himself. 

“Hey,” he whispers as he cradles Alex close to his chest, preventing him from hitting the floor. Michael is on one knee, holding Alex like he’s the most precious treasure in the whole world. “Are you okay?”

Alex mumbles something as he tries to stand up, but he slips off, sliding against Michael’s frame as he scrambles for purchase. “Hey,” Michael says softly, grabbing him more firmly, steading them both as he holds on tight. “Calm down, you’re not falling. I’ve got you.”

“Thanks,” Alex mutters, not looking Michael in the eye. There’s commotion around them, but Michael can only see Alex as he fights to stand up. Michael helps him back on his feet, dusting off his jacket and his trousers, and finally, _finally_ , Alex looks up and Michael’s breath hitches.

There is a depth in those eyes, a hurt so clear and stark, that has Michael’s heart soaring for him. Alex stares back at him briefly, his face a mask only betrayed by his eyes, and all Michael can do before Alex pulls away from him and walks away is lift one hand to Alex’s pink face and cup his cheek. Michael holds his breath until Alex leans into the touch, and although it’s gone as soon as it’s started and suddenly they’re feet apart, Michael already craves the feeling of his skin under his fingertips. He watches as Max takes over and helps Alex back to his seat, allowing him to lean into his much taller frame.

The rest of the trial remains a blur in Michael’s mind. He doesn’t even register the moment Jesse Manes and Marquis Chandler enter and leave the room after the judge calls it a day. He barely acknowledges the noise around him, the voices commenting how Judge Normond has summoned the indicted a couple of days later for a sentence.

He’s ready to jump out of his chair the second the trial is over. Bewildered, he looks around to see Alex still sitting where he’s remained the whole time, staring at his hands with his head down so nobody can get a glimpse of his face. Michael doesn’t even bother concealing the true nature of his actions as he slides through the floor and barely catches himself in front of Alex. He reaches out a hand and waits until Alex looks up warily. 

“Wanna go for a ride?” he asks cheekily, smile wide and brow arched up. 

Alex blinks at him for a long heartbeat before taking his hand and helping himself up.

“Are you sure?”

Michael’s only answer is to tug at him and lead the way out of the room, among the twirl and confusion of all the people still gossiping about the trial. He doesn’t think Max has caught up with him leaving, but he’ll deal with that later. Right now, all Michael wants is to have Alex for himself, alone and _near_. Without letting go of Alex’s hand, Michael takes a turn and almost runs into some secretaries standing in the middle of the hallway. 

“Prince Michael!” one of them cries out, making the rest of the crowd in the corridor look at him as if they’ve just seen him for the first time.

“Dammit,” he says under his breath. He’s not ready to face so many people at once, not when all he wants is to hold Alex’s hand in his forever and forget about the rest of the world. 

“Here,” Alex tugs at his hand, pointing into the opposite direction. They run away, turning corners until Michael stops and drags Alex towards a narrow door painted in an undefinable color. Michael covers the knob with his hand and turns it, opening the door. They both stumble together inside, the door closing at their back, as they dissolve in a fit of giggles. 

“Too much for a ride, Your Highness,” Alex jokes.

“I don’t know, we still could take that ride, Milord,” Michael deadpans. His hands are frantically searching for a switch to lighten up the interior of wherever they’ve ended up entering. When his fingers brush the device, he presses on and a bulb ignites over their heads. Michael looks around himself and determines they’re in a small broom closet, if the cleaning products and the different kinds of mops are anything to go by. He feels Alex go rigid by his side. 

“Alex,” he says softly, turning around to face him once again.

“I–”

“Alex,” he repeats when it’s obvious Alex isn’t saying anything else, trailing off as his eyes roam Michael’s frame. Michael has never felt more naked or exposed, but he finds himself not really caring so long as Alex keeps looking at him like this ‒ like he cares.

“I do care, _Michael_ ,” Alex whispers, and it’s then that Michael realizes he’s been talking out loud. 

He chuckles, and Alex sniffs. 

“I just don’t think–You were right, you know?”

“When?” Michael mutters. His fingers seem to have a life of their own, as they, aching to touch, have lifted on their volition and are now brushing against Alex’s cheekbones. 

“When you walked away from me,” Alex’s voice sounds broken as he looks down. Michael cups his cheek and forces him to look right back at him. “You had every right to do so.”

“I didn’t,” Michael reassures him. He leans in, forehead barely touching Alex’s, as he keeps talking. “I was judging you the same way I hate to be judged. Now I know you didn’t have anything to do with _that_.” 

Alex shivers. 

Michael doesn’t fight the urge to embrace him, effectively engulfing Alex’s solid frame in his arms, allowing his warmth to seep through to Michael’s colder skin. “And even if you had, I was just lying to myself, you know.”

“Lying to yourself?”

Michael laughs bitterly. “Even if you had betrayed me that much,” he confesses, willing his voice not to quiver. “Even if that had been the case, you’d still be the person that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, Alex.”

Alex mumbles something, hands gripping Michael’s shirt in painful fists as he collapses against him. Michael manages to barely keep his stance, colliding against the nearest wall at his back with the force of Alex’s weight. They both end up in a heap of boneless limbs as Michael flails around and Alex simply rests his head on Michael’s chest. 

“This can’t happen,” Alex says, so quietly that Michael almost misses it.

“What can’t happen?” he asks, his fingers finding their way back into Alex’s hair. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re going to be king,” Alex says as if that’s the whole explanation Michael needs. Michael frowns at Alex when he hides his face once again in Michael’s blue shirt. “Can’t you see it? You’re going to be king, and I’ll always be the son of the man who threatened to unseat you.”

Michael can’t help the laugh that escapes his mouth, but he tampers it down when Alex makes an offended sound in his throat. 

“Oh, Alex,” he whispers softly, caressing his scalp with deft fingers. “You can’t be held responsible for your father’s actions. You’re not your father.”

“That’s what everyone else will see, though,” Alex continues, stubborn. Michael tightens his grip on Alex’s locks and pulls him closer, almost fusing skin with skin over their clothes. 

“I love you, Alex,” Michael declares, because there’s nothing else left to say, not when Alex is being obstinate in hiding his mumbling speech behind Michael’s lapels. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t care anymore, so long as you’re with me.”

“Aren’t you tired of watching me walk away, every single time?” Alex finally speaks, and it sounds muffled by Michael’s clothes but also teary as he wipes his cheeks. “Whenever I think‒” he stutters. Michael just wants to kiss him. “You see, when you look at me, it’s like I’m this foolish kid once again, and I forget that the last five years even happened. And then–then you look away, and I remember all over again, and it almost kills me every time.”

Michael’s heart is hammering so hard on his chest that he thinks it may leap out and race to Alex. He knows this is the turning point, the moment of truth. He knows what he wants, and somehow he can get a glimpse of what it’s like for Alex ‒ all the fear and the pain and the trauma, most of it fueled by misunderstandings and Jesse Manes’s schemes. If he could, he would kiss all of Alex’s doubts away, sweep him off his feet.

Maybe he still can.

“But I never look away, Alex,” he whispers, promises dangling from his tongue as his eyes seek out for Alex’s. “Not really. Not _ever_. I’ve always believed you’d come back. To me.” 

He looks down, placing a kiss on top of the mop of hair that’s now trembling as though Alex is crying. Michael can hear a soft sob escaping under breath, and he shakes his head. 

“Look at me, Alex. Please.”

When chocolate dark eyes meet his own, the fire ignited deep down in his belly roars to life. He has to fight the sudden urge to _touch_ , for what he sees in Alex’s eyes is a passion so raw, a love so pure, that Michael wishes he could live in this moment forever. Alex looks up at him with tears still hanging from his eyelashes, long and dark as his eyes, and Michael can’t help the need to dry them away. He brushes the back of his hand against Alex’s skin, smearing the tears further down. He chuckles.

“We can’t,” Alex repeats, stubborn, but he’s leaning up and Michael is leaning in, and there’s no air shared between them when Michael closes the gap and claims Alex’s lips as his. 

The kiss is soft at first, but it quickly escalates as Michael explores Alex’s broad shoulders and Alex entangles his fingers in Michael’s curls, tugging and nipping and biting; both of them fighting for dominance in a dance that Michael will gladly repeat every single day of his life if it means having Alex by his side. He dares to swipe his tongue over Alex’s lower lip, and bites back a moan when Alex opens his mouth, granting him entrance. Michael would have remained in that broom closet forever, but when he pulls back enough to gasp for air, he can hear the ruckus outside, Max’s voice commanding everyone to comb the area in pairs and make sure not an inch is uncovered for they have to find the prince.

“ _Michael_ ,” Alex whines as Michael holds him tight against his chest and drops one last kiss on his head before keeping him at an arm’s length. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but we–”

“I’ll find a way,” Michael promises, an echo of a lingering sentiment shared not so long ago, leaning in to kiss Alex once again, before the guards interrupt them. Michael can hear Max’s footsteps approaching, and he tries to hold onto Alex tighter, but it’s to no avail. Max barges in the small broom closet , gun in hand pointing at them, spitting orders around, _Sanders, go that way_ , _careful, Long, you don’t want to trip over_ , _watch your six, Avila_ , ready to protect Michael, only to stop dead in his tracks when he takes in the scene.

“Sorry,” Max apologizes, stepping back and looking away as he blushes. Michael doesn’t have the energy to say anything, he’s trying to map Alex’s face with his trembling fingers as he attempts to kiss him one last time. They both scramble to their feet, but Alex is already escaping Michael’s grip, sliding between his fingers like rain pouring from the sky.

“You’ll find a way,” Alex makes him vow, his movements slow and deliberately as he pushes against the door, wedging himself in the small space between the doorway and Max, who’s standing awkwardly, watching agape at them. Michael nods eagerly ‒ he’d say anything, _do_ anything ‒ and before he knows it, Alex is completely detached from him. With one last peck to Michael’s lips, Alex flees through the open door, leaving Michael fighting for air, one hand outstretched in the hopes to grasp something, _anything_ , to keep Alex from leaving him once again.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

“Ready?” Regent Valenti asks him one more time as he fixes his dark green tie looking at his reflection on the mirror. He blinks at himself, curls already wild even though Isobel tried to smooth them down less than half an hour ago. “Michael?”

“D’you think one can ever be ready for this?” he replies, turning around and gesturing vaguely at himself ‒ black suit on white crisp shirt, the tie looking askew no matter how many times he reties the knot, the shoes looking funny on feet that have always worn cowboy boots. “I’m beyond nervous, Michelle.”

“You’ll do fine,” she reassures him, a soft smile cracking her serious stance. “It’s mostly mechanical, you’ll see.”

“Have you,” Michael cuts himself short, suddenly too self-aware to actually voice what’s on his mind. “I just–”

“I sent the invitation, just like you asked me to,” Regent Valenti answers his unasked question. “But I can’t be sure it’s been accepted, Michael. You know how these things go.”

“I really don’t,” he retaliates, voice quiet and small, barely a thread. “It’s a first for me.”

“Well, today’s going to be a day of firsts, then,” Regent Valenti smiles at him, trying to lift up the mood.

Michael nods curtly, berating himself when he can’t stop his hands from shaking whenever he takes them out of his trouser pockets. He kicks at the floor a couple of times to center himself and when he looks up from the tip of his shoes, Regent Valenti is still standing close to him, regal long dress in pinks and lavenders, watching him as if he’s about to break at any moment.

He is completely and utterly sure that he’s about to collapse if he tries to move.

Regent Valenti nudges him to start walking, and he doesn’t really know how he ends up in the coronation room, still devoid of public as it’s way too early for everyone to be there. In front of him stands the throne, ancient and massive, calling for him to sit down and try it, which he does once he checks that Regent Valenti has walked away to talk to Isobel about last-minute arrangements. Michael sighs and gets closer to the steps leading to the throne, which shines under the dim sunrays seeping through the ornate windows. The seat is comfortable, he notices as he sits down, but he also feels the weight of responsibility that comes with the crown. Michael rests his elbows on his thighs and hides his face in his hands, fingers threading through his own curls while he tries to calm himself down. He wants to wail.

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” he hears right in front of him, a voice he has been both longing and dreading to hear, and he jumps a little in the throne, surprised that he’s not alone, that he’s been caught in such a vulnerable situation.

“Henry IV. Part Two,” he talks back, without lifting his head from his hands.

“Are you going to look at me?” he hears again, and this time he has to look up, as if summoned by a greater force. The sight that greets him takes his breath away.

Alex is standing awkwardly in the middle of the throne room, shuffling slightly and favoring his left leg from what Michael can tell from the way he sways. He’s wearing the same pristine blue jacket and the same crisp white shirt ‒ even the same patterned silk tie Michael remembers so distinctly ‒ he wore to the first party they both attended at the palace, when they found themselves in that maze. Michael can’t peel his eyes off him.

“What are you doing here, Alex?”

“I have an invitation saying I have a right to be here,” Alex says slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets as he speaks. His whole body language talks closing off and retreating, and Michael doesn’t want that.

“I mean,” he starts over again. “I mean, here in this room before the ceremony.”

“If I may be so bold, I would like an audience with Your Highness,” Alex explains, smiling a little. Michael thinks he’s melting, scorching heat creeping through to his bones as he watches Alex get on one knee as is customary in Genovia.

“What is your dilemma, young man?” Michael plays along, because now that he has Alex where he wanted him ‒ not in vain he’s invited Alex to the ceremony in the hopes that they could talk ‒ Michael is way too nervous to function.

“You are, in fact,” Alex says simply. Michael just stares, as if willing the other man to elaborate without actually urging Alex on with any words. “I love you. And I think you loved me, for a long time.”

Without warning, Michael feels his eyes welling up; he chastises himself for being so sensitive and emotional, and he chalks it up to the fact that he’s been on edge for so long, with everything that’s happened revolving around his coronation. He’s not at all crying because Alex has just thrown around the most direct declaration of love Michael has ever heard.

“That day,” Alex is still on one knee, and he’s no longer boring holes in Michael’s gaze. 

Michael misses the warmth of those eyes on him, but he fights the urge to jump out and hold Alex in his arms. He’s trying to be an adult and listening before he acts. 

“The day at the lake,” Alex keeps on. “I wanted so bad to ask you to leave everything behind and just–just. Just elope, you know. I thought love would be enough. For a second I let myself believe my father wouldn’t ruin this little thing I had right.”

“You were going to ask me to _elope_? With _you_?” Michael has jumped off the throne like a spring, but he still holds himself for fear any touch might not be welcome right now.

“I love you, Michael,” and the sound of his name rolls off Alex’s tongue like a blessing and a curse, like a prayer and a sin. “And I’ve allowed myself this hope. Because you’ve fought to become king, and you’ve managed to be heard, to be taken into account. You’re going to be a great king.”

“Great kings need someone by their side,” Michael muses, finding both his voice and his will to move. 

He sets into motion; two strides and he’s standing in front of Alex, tall and feigning a security that the trembling of his hands betrays. His left hand hurts whenever he moves it, the nerves echoing the blood pumping through his veins. He twitches, catching Alex’s eye, making him look up and into his mangled hand.

“Michael,” he says, reaching out and taking Michael’s marred hand, the jumbled bones and mashed skin caressed by his calloused fingers. 

“You were going to ask me to spend my life with you,” Michael gets back on track, recollecting the most important points in Alex’s speech. “You wanted _that_ with me.”

“I’ve always wanted everything with you,” Alex confesses, still on his knee. 

His face is a rictus of pain and struggle; it’s all Michael can do to stop himself from lifting Alex up, but he knows his help will be dismissed. 

“I’ve always felt like my life was this giant puzzle and I was missing a piece and then you came along and–and I was complete.”

“Pieces want to be together,” Michael agrees. This time, he touches Alex’s arm over the sleeve of the jacket, squeezing him tight enough for Alex to take the hint and get on his feet with a little help. “Do you know why I’ve invited you to this ceremony, Alex?”

“Because you’ve invited the whole country and then some?” There’s a hint of sarcasm present in Alex’s voice. Michael’s heart expands at the thought that the snarky side of Alex Manes ‒ the side he fell in love with, the wit and the intelligence ‒ is finally back.

“Because I love you, _present tense_. I’ve always loved you,” Michael repeats for emphasis. “I’d have gone to the end of the world for you. Fuck, I’ll still do it. You just have to ask.” 

Michael stops talking, collecting himself, inhaling deeply. He’s still hovering over Alex even though they’re both standing, but Alex is crouched forward with pain probably caused by overusing his prosthetic. 

“But I didn’t invite you here so _you_ could ask me to go away with you. I invited you here because I wanted to make sure you’re not walking away from me ever again. Alex,” Michael keeps on, voice breaking a little by the end of every few words. “Alex, I’m going to need support and love and family around me. I can’t do this on my own. I need someone who loves me even through my flaws, who’s seen me, the real me, and who’s willing to stay.”

“And what makes you think I’m that person?” Alex genuinely sounds bewildered. “I’ve walked away so many times, my father–”

“You are not your father,” Michael interrupts him. “You are _yourself_. And the person you are, the talented musician, the war veteran, the man who’s put himself on the line to save a kingdom, that person? I fell in love with him so long ago. It’s so deep now, Alex, that I’m not sure I will ever be able to fall out of love with you.”

“What are you asking of me?” Alex whispers, barely audible. Michael is so close now, having pivoted towards Alex unconsciously, that he catches even the hitch in Alex’s breath as he speaks.

“You are my person, Alex. Will you let me show that to you every single day of the rest of our lives?”

There’s not a vocalized reply coming from Alex’s lips, but Michael doesn’t complain when the only answer Alex gives is to surge forward and kisses him. He melts into the embrace, hands sliding beneath layers of fabrics ‒ jacket, shirt, undershirt ‒ until they find skin, warm and pulsing and smooth, reacting as he flattens his palm against Alex’s side. They kiss like there’s no tomorrow, when in fact the only thing they have is a future. 

They kiss and kiss until clapping and cat-calling startle them apart. When Michael looks around, hands still underneath Alex’s shirt, he can see the whole crowd gathered by the door, smiling and cheering; Max and Isobel shaking their heads in amusement while Jenna and Kyle are yelling like they are at a baseball game. Regent Valenti is just a few steps behind, just like she’s been during Michael’s whole adventure at being heir to Genovia, nodding her acceptance. Their guests have joined the rest of the group in their cheering, and if Michael watches as Maria slips her hand in Isobel’s, or Liz nudges Max as Rosa rolls her eyes, he chooses not to comment on it. They all deserve the happiness he’s sensing they’ll get soon.

As far as crowning ceremonies go, Michael’s is short but intense. Afterwards, he turns around to face the crowd gathered in the throne room, Regent Valenti at his left as he holds the scepter, crown on his head. He already feels the weight of this new adventure he’s about to start on his own, and he knows the smile he’s offering the world doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not yet. He searches the crowd, irises lightning when he finally, _finally_ , finds exactly what he was looking for.

His family among the crowd, lost and found, and crowded together like armor against life’s setbacks. He doesn’t need anything else so long as he has Max’s strength, Isobel’s wit, and Jenna’s support. He feels he can face anything with Maria’s friendship, Liz’s help, and Rosa’s creativity. Even Kyle contributes with his newfound knowledge about human growth, and Regent Valenti will always remain the well of wisdom he’ll come back to in times of need.

Across the room, Alex’s eyes catch his, and Michael realizes he wasn’t able to breathe until Alex’s music entered his life. He can face off anything life throws his way if he has Alex’s tunes in his life, calming his entropy and quieting his chaos. He’s powerful with Alex by his side, and he longs to be half the man Alex is, so he can offer him everything Alex has brought to his life.

Michael has never in his life felt so loved and cherished than in this moment, with his found family surrounding him and his soul surging forward to mingle with the half that has been missing from his life this whole time.

****

* ~ * ~ * ~

_Dear Iz,_

_I know this might come as a shock to you, to everyone really. Michael Guerin actually handwriting a letter! I wanted to give you something to hold onto in this time of need, and what’s best for memories than an old-fashioned letter?_

_I’m sorry to learn that Lady Mimi isn’t feeling all that dandy. And I’m sorry you’ve had to postpone everything, after a whole year of preparations, but I’m sure her health will improve soon and she’ll be able to attend your wedding next fall. Enclosed you’ll find information I’ve gathered about her condition from what you’ve both told me, and about doctors and other health professionals that could help her. No matter the cost, Izzy. Once I come back, we will be facing this together._

_You’ll probably be freaking out right now because you don’t know where exactly I am. Don’t fret, little sis, we’ll be back in time for your wedding. I wouldn’t miss it for anything, even if you marrying Maria means that I have to learn to live without your constant presence in the palace reminding me of my own flaws. I hope you’re happy to know that I won’t be going without an event planner for long; apparently Michelle has asked Rosa Ortecho to remain in Genovia and help your team up with everything while you settle down in Italy._

_I wish you as much happiness as I’ve finally found, Isobel. We all deserve this; we all deserve to have what we’ve longed for so far, what’s been denied over and over. We lost so much so long ago. I’m beginning to believe it’s time for us to pick up our own pieces and start over with our hearts built off strength and love. Love is what we all deserve. Love is what Max has found in Liz; it’s what you have with Maria._

_Love has brought me a family I wouldn’t have ever dreamt of. Love brought me to you. We will always be together, even if we’re physically apart, because that’s what family means._

_I’m looking forward to walking down that aisle with you off my arm, to give you to the love of your life._

_Love you always._

“Michael!” comes the call from outside the windowpane facing the ocean. He looks up from the desk, the last of the letters he’s been writing over the last few weeks, the ones he started when he wasn’t sure he’d become king of Genovia. He reminisces his own words to Max ‒ _it’s time for all of us to break free of what has tied us up for so long, Max_ and _Genovia will be here when you come back from following Liz around the world_ and _you will always be my brother, no matter the distance_ ‒ and to Jenna ‒ _I’m so glad you’ve decided to remain in Pyrus, even if for the wrong reasons_ and _of course I wouldn’t think of anyone else to keep me safe now that Max is courting Liz abroad_ and _if you take Valenti’s name how am I supposed to keep calling you Cam?_.

Good times were far behind in the rearview mirror, along with all the pain and the misery of an upbringing in the dark and a youth in denial. Good times are ahead of him, in the form of a country that relies on him to rule them. In the form of a man dripping water all around as he approaches the beachfront bungalow, waterproof prosthetic in place, broad smile splitting his face. 

“Michael! Stop hiding in the shadows and come swim with me!”

“Just a minute!” he calls back, turning around and signing the letter with a flourish. He sets down the pen on the table and stands up, pushing his weight off the chair and getting rid of the t-shirt he’s been wearing indoors. He rushes outside, the sun blinding him for a second; Michael uses his right hand as a shield until his eyes adjust to the new light. He smiles softly as he takes in the sight in front of him.

The man he’s been waiting for, all tanned and broad and _beautiful_ , standing under the sun as the light bathes him in gold, maroon swimsuit and white flip flops, hair spiked up in every direction, hands roaming through the rebel locks. There’s a drop of water trickling down his chest in a race toward his abs. Michael gets himself flushed thinking about trailing that drop with his tongue. 

“It’s really hot outside,” he says as a greeting. 

There’s a couple of steps between them, and Michael covers them in one long stroll. 

“Care to join me in the water?” he offers nonchalantly, as though he hasn’t been commanded to go outside and into the ocean. 

“After you, Your Highness,” comes the joyful reply.

“Alex,” he mutters, kissing him lightly on those full lips that have always had Michael bewitched. “You can’t possibly know how much I love you.”

“Don’t go all soft on me, my king,” Alex teases, a quick peck left on Michael’s lips. 

“You’re the only person I could go soft for, _Your Majesty_ ,” Michael mocks back, letting go of Alex and grabbing his hand instead. The cool bite of the golden rings they both wear sends a pleasant shiver up his spine.

Alex hums as he leans in, his whole body flushed against Michael’s as he arches up for a kiss. Michael readily gives in, because he’s learned that there’s nothing he’ll ever be able to deny Alex, and now that Michael has him back in his life for good this time, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Alex. 

“Didn’t you want us to swim for a bit?” he questions playfully when Alex reaches down, placing his hands below Michael’s waist, barely brushing the fabric of Michael’s turquoise swimsuit.

“I’m thinking of other activities we may do during our _honeymoon_ , now that I have you here,” Alex retaliates, hands wandering further down, voice singing softly a tune that brings them both to other moments, other places ‒ a different kind of happiness. 

Michael lets out a breathy laugh and pulls Alex back inside, hands and legs and lips entangled to the point where neither can tell where Michael ends and Alex begins.

Michael can’t help but think that it’s the way it should have always been ‒ one soul split in halves so two hearts can beat at the same rhythm. 

Much, much later, when the sun is already finding its way back down to the horizon, they walk towards the shore, hand in hand as if they don’t have any care in the world, while the sun beams from above them, sand and gold, blue and white overlapping as Michael realizes he’s finally, _finally_ , found his quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have made it this far, I something to say to you:
> 
> THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART.
> 
> Thanks to those who have spared a second to leave kudos or write a comment, to those who have bookmarked this, to those who have read. This has been a wonderful journey.
> 
> This story means the world to me, and I am so glad that I've been finally able to share it with you all. Thank you for reading and for commenting and for leaving kudos. Thank you for letting me be part of your lives for a brief moment.


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